REPRESENTATIVE  PLAYS 

By  AMERICAN  DRAMATISTS 


Representative  Plays  by 
American  Dramatists 

Edited  with 
Historical  and  Critical  Introductions 

By  MONTROSE  J.  MOSES 

In  Three  Volumes 
Volume     I    1765—1819 
Volume    II    1815-1858 
Volume  III     1856-1917 


E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company 

68 1  Fifth  Avenue 

New  York 


THE 


CONTRAST, 


COMEDY; 

I  N    F  I  VA  C  T  S  : 


WRITTEN   BY  A 

CITIZEN  OF  THE  UNITED  ST4TES; 


Performed  with  Applaufe  at  the  Theatres  in  NEW-YORK, 
PHILADELPHIA,  and  MARYLAND; 

AHD  rvBLMHin  (under  an  AJJignm»tt  ffttt  Cofy-RigbtJ  BY 

THOMAS     WIGNELL. 


Vi.on. 


Primus  ego  in  patriam 

Aonio— — <ieduxi  vertice  Mufas. 

(Imitated.) 

Firft  on  oor  (hores  I  try  THALIA'S  powers, 
\nd  bid  the  laughing,  tifeful  Maid  be  ours. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

»ROM  Tiifc  r»cst  or  PRICHARD  &  HALL,  IN  MAKKKT 

BETWtSM    JtCOKD    AMD    fKOMT    tTKCSTf. 
M.  DSC.  Xt. 


FAC-SIMILE  TITLE-PAGE  OF  THE  FIRST  EDITION 
(From  the  Original,  owned  by  Dr.  F.  W.  Atkinson) 


Representative  Plays  by 

American  Dramatists 

'i  • 

Edited,  with  an  Introduction  to  Each  Play 

By  MONTROSE  J.  MOSES 

M 

I765-I8I9 

Illustrated  with  Portraits,  and 
Original  Title-Pages 


New  York 

E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company 
1918 


Copyright,  iqiSy  by  E.  P.  Dutton  £gf  Company 

Printed  in  the  United  States 
of  America 


To 
DR.  FRED  W.  ATKINSON 

In  grateful  recollection  of  his  encouragement 

and  aid  in  the  preparation  of 

this  volume. 


Table  of  Contents 

General  Introduction.  I  -    10 

Bibliographies.  11-    18 

JL-T-he  Prince  of  Parthia. 

By  Thomas  Godfrey,  Jr.     1765  19-108 

*-  \  Ponteach  ;  or,  The  Savages  of  America. 

By  Robert  Rogers.     1766         109  -  208 

,  _  vThe  Group;  A  Farce.  * 

By  Mrs.  Mercy  Warren.     1775        209  -  232  i/ 

^  .The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill. 

By  Hugh  Henry  Brackenridge.     1776        233  -  276 

The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny;  or,  American  Liberty. 

By  John  Leacock.     1776        277  -  350 

The  Politician  Out-witted.   By  Samuel  Low.     1789        351  -429 
The  Contrast.  Ey  Roy  all  Tyler.     1790        431-498 


Andre.  By  William  Dunlap.     1798        499  -  564 


Thejtndian  Princess;  or,  La  Belle  Sauvage. 

By  /.  A7.  Barker.     1808        565  -  628 

7\She  Would  Be  a  Soldier;  or,  The  Plains  of  Chippewa. 

By  M.  M.  Noah.     1819        629  -  678 


INTRODUCTION 

The  present  collection  of  "Representative  Plays  by  American 
Dramatists"  is  the  first  of  its  kind  to  be  offered  to  the  general 
reader.  In  its  scope,  it  covers  a  period  from  1765-191 1,  and  in  its 
plan  of  selection,  it  strives  to  show  the  advance  in  playwriting 
during  successive  periods  of  American  history. 

Because  of  this  scheme,  the  choice  of  plays  for  the  Colonial  and 
Revolutionary  sections  necessarily  includes  several  which,  while 
written  for  the  stage,  are  not  authentically  located  as  far  as  pro 
duction  is  concerned.  There  is  no  indication  that  Robert  Rogers's 
"Ponteach"  was  ever  accepted  by  any  of  the  theatrical  companies 
of  the  time,  and  there  is  no  positive  proof  that  Mrs.  Mercy 
Warren's  "The  Group"  was  ever  done,  although  there  are  casual 
references  to  the  fact  that  performances  were  given  at  Amboyne. 
Nor  have  we  any  right  to  believe  that  Samuel  Low's  "The  Poli 
tician  Out-witted"  received  other  than  scant  treatment  from  the 
managers  to  whom  it  was  submitted ;  it  was  published  rather  to 
please  the  readers  of  the  closet  drama.  Nevertheless,  it  has  been 
thought  essential  to  include  these  plays  because  they  are  repre 
sentative  of  the  spirit  of  the  times,  and  help  to  give  a. more  com 
prehensive  view  of  the  subjects  which  were  treated  in  dramatic 
form  by  the  early  American  playwrights. 

From  the  moment  the  American  writer  ceased  to  be  an  English 
man,  and  became  fully  aware  of  his  national  consciousness, 
American  drama,  following  the  trend  of  the  development  of 
American  literature,  began  to  feel  its  way  for  the  proper  expres 
sion  of  national  characteristics. 

And  so,  in  the  second  and  third  volumes  of  this  series,  the 
reader  will  find  plays  which,  while  not  wonderful  in  their  literary 
value,  are,  nevertheless,  very  distinctive,  as  reflecting  the  theatri 
cal  tastes  of  the  time,  and  the  very  crude,  but  none  the  less  sin 
cere,  technical  effort  of  the  playwrights.  All  the  dramas  included 
in  the  second  and  third  volumes  have  had  their  stage  productions, 
and  are  thus  representative  of  characteristics  which  mark  the 
abilities  of  certain  actors,  whose  claims  to  originality  are  found  in 
the  special  types  they  created. 

It  has  been  the  present  editor's  object  so  to  arrange  the  succes 
sive  order  of  these  plays  that  the  reader  may  not  only  be  able  to 
judge  the  change  in  stagecraft  and  technique,  but,  likewise,  may 


2  Representative  Plays 

note  the  change  in  social  idea  and  in  historical  attitude  toward 
certain  subjects.  For  example,  "The  Contrast"  contains  the  first 
American  Stage  Yankee — a  model  for  a  succession  of  Stage 
Yankees  to  follow.  But,  whereas  Royall  Tyler's  Jonathan  was 
not  especially  written  to  exploit  the  peculiar  abilities  of  Mr. 
Wignell,  the  comedian,  most  of  the  Yankee  plays  of  a  later  date 
were  written  to  exploit  the  peculiar  excellences  of  such  actors  as 
G.  H.  Hill  and  James  H.  Hackett. 

In  no  way  can  the  reader  better  sense  the  change  in  social  cus 
toms  and  ideals  than  by  reading  a  series  of  plays  written  in  suc 
cessive  generations  and  reflecting  the  varying  customs  of  the 
time.  In  some  respects  "The  Contrast"  may  be  considered  our 
very  earliest  drama  of  social  manners,  even  though  Royall  Tyler 
was  not  over-successful  in  stamping  the  small  talk  of  his  women 
as  being  distinctively  American.  Rather  is  it  the  direct  imitation 
— without  the  brilliancy — of  the  small  talk  in  "The  School  for 
Scandal."  But,  nevertheless,  "The  Contrast"  does  attempt  to 
deal  with  society  in  New  York  before  the  nineteenth  century,  and 
in  Mrs.  Mowatt's  "Fashion,"  in  Mrs.  Bateman's  "Self,"  in  Bron- 
son  Howard's  "Saratoga"  (which  has  been  published),  in  Clyde 
Fitch's  "The  Moth  and  the  Flame;"  and  in  Langdon  Mitchell's 
"The  New  York  Idea,"  we  are  given  a  very  significant  and 
sharply  defined  panoramic  view  of  the  variations  in  moral  and 
social  attitudes. 

The  plays  included  in  this  series  have  very  largely  been  selected 
because  of  their  distinct  American  flavour.  The  majority  of  the 
dramas  deal  directly  with  American  subjects.  But  it  seemed  un 
wise  and  unrepresentative  to  frame  one's  policy  of  selection  too 
rigidly  on  that  score.  Had  such  a  method  been  adhered  to,  many 
of  the  plays  written  for  Edwin  Forrest  would  have  to  be  omitted 
from  consideration.  It  would  have  been  difficult,  because  of  this 
stricture,  to  include  representative  examples  of  dramas  by  the 
Philadelphia  and  Knickerbocker  schools  of  playwrights.  Robert 
T.  Conrad's  "Jack  Cade,"  John  Howard  Payne's  "Brutus," 
George  Henry  Boker's  "Francesca  da  Rimini,"  and  Nathaniel  P. 
Willis's  "Tortesa,  the  Usurer,"  would  thus  have  been  ruled  from 
the  collection.  Nevertheless  are  they  representative  plays  by 
American  dramatists.  Another  departure  from  the  American  at 
mosphere  is  in  the  case  of  Steele  Mackaye;  here  in  preference  to 
"Hazel  Kirke,"  I  have  selected  "Paul  Kauvar,"  farthest  away 
from  American  life,  inasmuch  as  it  deals  with  Nihilism,  but 


Introduction  3 

written  at  a  time  when  there  was  a  Nihilistic  fever  in  New  York 
City. 

No  editor,  attempting  such  a  comprehensive  collection  as  this, 
can  be  entirely  successful  in  including  everything  which  will  en 
rich  his  original  plan.  There  are  always  limitations  placed  upon 
him  by  the  owners  of  copyrights,  and  by  gapsin  the  development, 
due  to  loss  of  manuscripts.  It  was  naturally  my  desire  to  have  all 
the  distinctive  American  playwrights  represented  in  the  present 
collection.  Therefore,  in  justice,  the  omissions  have  to  be  indi 
cated  here,  because  they  leave  gaps  in  a  development  which  it 
would  have  been  well  to  offer  unbroken  and  complete. 

When  the  collection  was  first  conceived,  there  was  every  indica 
tion  that  permission  would  be  granted  me  to  reproduce  at  least 
one  of  the  Robert  Montgomery  Bird  manuscripts,  now  owned  by 
the  University  of  Pennsylvania.  Naturally,  a  collection  of  repre 
sentative  plays  should  include  either  Bird's  "The  Gladiator,"  or 
one  of  his  other  more  or  less  oratorical  and  poetical  pieces,  written 
under  the  inspiration  of  Edwin  Forrest.  The  intention  to  include 
John  Augustus  Stone's  "Metamora"  brought  to  light,  after  corre 
spondence  with  the  Forrest  Home  in  Philadelphia,  that  either  the 
manuscript  of  that  play  has  irrevocably  been  destroyed,  or  else 
has  been  preserved  so  carefully  that  no  one  remotely  connected 
with  the  actor  Forrest  has  thus  far  been  able  to  locate  it. 
Only  a  few  well  remembered  speeches  and  isolated  scenes  are 
seemingly  left  of  a  play  which  increased  so  largely  the  fame  of 
Mr.  Forrest. 

In  the  selection  of  types  my  attention  naturally  became  cen 
tered  on  the  characters  of  Colonel  Mulberry  Sellars,  and  Judge 
Bar  dwell  Slote,  the  former  in  a  dramatization  of  "The  Gilded 
Age,"  by  Mark  Twain  and  Charles  Dudley  Warner,and  the  latter, 
in  a  play  by  Benjamin  E.  Woolf,  called  "The  Mighty  Dollar." 
Extended  investigation  revealed  the  fact  that,  even  if  the  plays 
are  not  lost,  they  are  still  unlocated,  by  the  literary  executors  of 
Mark  Twain  on  the  one  hand,  and  by  the  family  of  Mr.  Woolf  on 
the  other.  It  is  well  to  mention  these  instances,  because,  until  the 
recent  interest  in  the  origins  of  American  drama,  manifest  on  all 
sides,  there  has  been  a  danger  that  many  most  valuable  manu 
script  plays  would  be  lost  to  the  student  forever. 

At  a  revival  of  individual  scenes  from  distinctive  American 
plays,  given  in  New  York,  on  January  22,  1917,  considerable 
difficulty  was  experienced  before  the  stock-company  manuscript 


4  Representative  Plays 

of  Frank  E.  Murdoch's  "Davy  Crockett"  was  procured.  This 
play,  old-fashioned  in  its  general  development,  is  none  the  less 
representative  of  old-time  melodramatic  situation  and  romantic 
manipulation,  and  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that,  with  the 
tremendous  changes  in  theatrical  taste,  unless  this  play  is  pub 
lished  in  available  printed  form,  it  will  be  lost  to  the  student  of 
ten  years  from  now.  The  play  would  have  been  included  in  the 
present  edition  if  space  had  allowed. 

When  I  came  to  a  consideration  of  the  modern  section,  there 
were  many  omissions  which  had  to  be  made,  due  very  largely  to 
the  fact  that  authors  and  owners  of  copyright  were  loath  to  forego 
their  rights.  A  collection  of  this  kind  should  undoubtedly  have 
the  name  of  James  A.  Herne  represented  in  its  contents,  inasmuch 
as  none  of  Mr.  Herne's  plays  have  heretofore  been  published,  and 
two  of  his  most  distinctive  dramas  in  original  manuscript,  "Mar 
garet  Fleming"  and  "Griffith  Davenport,"  have  been  totally  de 
stroyed  by  fire.  But  representatives  of  Mr.  Herne's  family  have 
declined,  at  the  present  time,  to  allow  his  plays  to  be  published. 
This  is  to  be  regretted,  inasmuch  as  nearly  all  of  the  most  prom 
inent  American  playwrights  are  represented,  either  in  the  publi 
cation  of  isolated  plays  or  in  definitive  editions.  I  should  have 
liked  to  end  this  collection  with  the  inclusion  of  Mr.  Eugene 
Walter's  "The  Easiest  Way;"  at  the  present  time,  that  play, 
which  was'  once  issued  in  an  edition  privately  printed,  is  to  be 
found  in  the  Drama  League  Series  of  plays. 

From  the  standpoint  of  non-copyright  material,  two  interesting 
conditions  have  been  revealed  through  investigation.  The  first 
published  play,  in  America,  was  "Androboros,"  by  Governor 
Robert  Hunter,  written  in  collaboration  with  Chief  Justice  Lewis 
Morris.1  Only  one  copy  of  that  play  is  in  existence,  owned  by 
Mr.  H.  E.  Huntington,  of  New  York,  having  formerly  been 
a  valued  possession  in  the  library  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire ;  and 
having  descended  from  the  private  ownership  of  David  Garrick 
and  John  Kemble,  the  English  actors.  Naturally,  the  private 
collector  is  loath,  in  view  of  the  rarity  of  his  edition,  to  allow  it, 
at  present,  to  be  reprinted. 

Some  scholars,  however,  point  to  "Les  Muses  de  la  Nouvelle- 
France,"  printed  in  Paris  in  1609,  where  the  third  piece  is  "Le 

1  The  title-page  of  "Androboros"  reads:  "Androboros"/  A / Bographical  [Sic.] 
Farce/In  Three  Acts,  Viz. /The  Senate./The  Consistory,/and/The  Apotheosis./ 
By  Governour  Hunter. /Printed  at  Moropolis  since  ist  August,  1714.  [Taken 
from  Huntington  Copy.  Moropolis  means  Fool's  Town.] 


Introduction  5 

Theatre  de  Neptune  en  la  Nouvelle-France."  According  to  Marc 
Lescarbot,  this  was  "representee  sur  les  flots  du  Port- Royal  le 
quatorzieme  de  Novembre,  mille  six  cens  six,  au  retour  de  Sieur 
de  Poutrincourt  du  pais  des  Armouchiquois."  This  may  be 
regarded  as  example  of  the  first  play  written  and  acted  on  North 
American  soil,  it,  however,  being  in  French,  and  not  given  within 
what  is  now  the  United  States,  but  rather  at  Port  Royal,  in 
Acadia.  (See  two  interesting  letters,  i°  W.  J.  Neidig,  Nation, 
88:86,  January  28,  1909;  2°  Philip  Alexander  Bruce,  Nation, 
88:136,  February  n,  1909.) 

It  was  my  further  desire,  as  an  example  of  college  play  writing, 
to  include  the  text  of  Barnabas  Bidwell's  "The  Mercenary 
Match,"  written  at  Yale,  and  played  by  the  students  of  Yale.1 
Only  one  copy  of  that  play  is,  thus  far,  known  to  be  in  existence, 
owned  by  Mr..  Evert  Jansen  Wendell,  and  its  inclusion  in  the 
present  collection  is  debarred  for  the  same  reason. 

Were  this  collection — Representative  Plays  by  American 
Dramatists — encyclopedic  in  its  scope,  rather  than  a  suggestive 
arrangement  of  a  limited  number  of  plays  for  the  purpose  of  illus 
trating  certain  phases  of  playwriting  in  American  theatrical  his 
tory,  it  would  have  been  necessary  for  the  editor  to  intersperse, 
here  and  there,  between  the  plays,  certain  minor  forms  of  dra 
matic  writing,  characteristic  of  the  work  done  in  this  country. 
For  example,  plays  and  dialogues  written  at  colleges  at  a  period 
ante-dating  1800,  and  likewise  ante-dating  the  Revolution,  are  a 
distinctive  development  in  themselves,  and  would  form  an  inter 
esting  contrast  with  the  work  being  done  at  the  colleges  since  the 
beginning  of  the  present  so-called  dramatic  renaissance  (1917). 
These  dialogues,  in  their  proper  place,  will  be  dealt  with  in  the  in 
troductions  to  a  few  of  the  plays.  But  it  is  well  to  indicate  here 
that  such  illustrations  of  very  definite  forms  of  dramatic  expres 
sion  have  been  omitted. 

In  all  cases  the  texts  used  have  been  carefully  collated  with 
the  first  editions  of  the  published  dramas  and,  wherever  possible, 
the  original  casts  have  been  given  with  the  Dramatis  Personae. 
Interest  in  American  drama  consists  very  largely  in  the  elements 
of  comparison  and  contrast  which  certain  definite  dramas  sug 
gest.  Even  if  there  is  no  manuscript  of  "Metamora"  extant, 
there  is  sufficient  data  relating  to  the  character  of  Metamora  to 

1  The/Mercenary  Match, /A  Tragedy. /By  Barna  Bidwell./New  Haven : /Printed 
by  Meigs,  Bowen  and  Dana, /In  Chapel-Street. /(iv8s.) 


6  Representative  Plays 

contrast  the  play  with  Robert  Rogers's  "Ponteach."  Even 
though  Mrs.  Warren's  "The  Group"  might  be  ruled  out  as  an 
acting  drama,  none  the  less  is  it  definitely  reflective  of  the  revo 
lutionary  temper  of  Revolutionary  times.  A  comparison  of  other 
types  of  plays  will  be  made  as  they  occur  in  the  course  of  the  three 
volumes.  I  emphasize  the  point  here,  because  I  wish  to  suggest 
that  such  a  collection  as  this  offers  infinite  possibilities  in  the 
study  of  the  historical,  social,  and  economic  evolution  of  America. 
Most  of  these  plays  have  been  revived.  There  will  be  noted, 
later,  performances  of  "The  Prince  of  Parthia,"of  "The  Contrast," 
of  Dunlap's  "Andre,"and  of  Mrs.  Mowatt's  "Fashion, "according 
to  our  modern  methods  of  acting.  These  plays  may  often  seem 
verbose  and  lacking  in  continuous  development  and  interest. 
This  would  lead  us  to  believe  that  possibly  the  early  actor  had 
means  at  his  disposal  of  overcoming  these  defects  by  a  method  of 
dramatic  technique  unknown  to  the  present  player.  In  reading 
these  dramas,  one  must  be  able  to  bear  in  mind  the  differences 
which  exist  between  the  theatre  of  to-day  and  the  theatre  of  yes 
terday,  between  the  tradition  of  the  actor  of  to-day  and  of  the 
actor  of  yesterday.  The  technique,  for  example,  in  the  charac 
terization  of  Jonathan,  and  in  the  characterization  of  Solon 
Shingle,  is  different  from  the  technique  which  characterizes  the 
work  of  Clyde  Fitch  or  which  is  to  be  found  in  David  Belasco's 
"Peter  Grimm."  In  other  words,  in  such  a  collection,  one  asks,  not 
the  judgment  of  the  highest  literary  standards,  but  the  judgment 
of  an  historical  appreciation  of  the  changes  in  dramatic  taste. 

*     *     * 

This,  the  first  volume  of  "Representative  Plays  by  American 
Dramatists,"  contains  dramas  which  measure  the  tastes  and  in 
clinations  of  Colonial  and  Revolutionary  life.  In  the  proper  un 
derstanding  of  their  atmosphere,  it  is  necessary  to  know  some 
thing  of  the  general  spirit  of  the  theatre  of  the  period ;  to  measure 
the  conditions,  customs,  and  social  peculiarities  of  the  provincial 
actors  and  audiences.  For  that  reason,  it  would  be  well  for  the 
general  reader  beforehand  to  obtain  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the 
history  of  the  American  theatre — a  view  which  will  comprise 
some  consideration  of  the  first  playhouse  in  this  country,  of  the 
conditions  which  confronted  Hallam,  Henry,  and  Douglass,  the 
first  actors  to  be  at  the  head  of  what,  in  Williamsburg,  Virginia, 
was  known  as  the  Virginia  Comedians,  and  in  New  York  and 
Philadelphia,  as  the  American  Company. 


Introduction  7 

No  more  fascinating  study  could  be  imagined  than  following 
the  trials  and  tribulations  of  the  actors  in  America  at  this  early 
day,  who,  as  soon  as  they  reached  Philadelphia,  or  as  soon  as  they 
attempted  to  invade  Boston,  were  confronted  by  the  Puritanical 
and  sectarian  prejudices,  against  which  the  early  history  of  the 
American  theatre  had  to  struggle.  The  personalities  of  the 
Hallams,  of  Douglass  and  Hodgkinson,  are  picturesque  and  worth 
while  tracing  in  all  aspects  of  their  Thespian  careers  in  the 
Colonies.  So,  too,  the  persons  of  Thomas  Wignell,  the  Comedian, 
and  of  Mrs.  Merry,  are  of  especial  interest.  Wignell,  at  the  John 
Street  Theatre,  in  New  York,  and  at  the  Southwark  Theatre,  in 
Philadelphia,  was  wont  to  amuse  George  Washington,  who,  on 
careful  examination  of  his  Journals  and  expense  accounts,  looms 
up  as  the  one  big  theatre-goer  of  the  time. 

The  reader  who  follows  the  effect  open  hostility  with  England 
had  upon  the  American  theatre,  will  find  most  interesting  mate 
rial  relating  to  the  dramatic  activities  of  the  soldiers  under  the 
leadership  of  Generals  Burgoyne  and  Howe.  In  fact,  no  account 
of  dramatic  writings  in  this  country  can  ignore  the  fact  that  Gen 
eral  Burgoyne,  apart  from  the  farce  which  incited  Mrs.  Mercy 
Warren,  was  himself  a  serious  dramatist,  who  took  his  work  seri 
ously,  and  whose  dramas  may  be  obtained  at  any  large  reference 
library.  The  Red-Coats,  as  actors,  amused  their  Tory  public 
with  such  plays  as  "Tamerlane,"  "The  Busybody,"  and  "Zara;" 
and  when  they  invaded  the  Southwark  Theatre,  around  1777, 
Major  Andre,  the  presiding  genius  of  the  English  soldier-actors, 
turned  to  good  account  his  ability  as  a  scene-painter,  and  painted 
a  backdrop  which  was  preserved  in  Philadelphia  until  1821,  when 
it  was  destroyed  by  fire.  We  have,  however,  a  description  of  the 
scene,  taken  from  Durang's  "History  of  the  Philadelphia  Stage." 

"It  was  a  landscape,"  he  writes,  "presenting  a  distant  cham 
pagne  country,  and  a  winding  rivulet,  extending  from  the  front 
of  the  picture  to  the  extreme  distance.  In  the  foreground  and 
centre  was  a  gentle  cascade — the  water  exquisitely  executed — 
overshadowed  by  a  group  of  majestic  forest  trees.  The  perspec 
tive  was  excellently  preserved ;  the  foliage,  verdure,  and  general 
colouring  artistically  toned  and  glazed.  It  was  a  drop  scene,  and 
Andre's  name  was  inscribed  on  the  back  of  it  in  large  black  letters. ' ' 

The  early  American  theatre  was  nothing  more  than  the  theatre 
of  England  transplanted  to  a  more  provincial  atmosphere.  We 
have  a  record  of  dramatic  performances  being  given  at  Williams 


8  Representative  Plays 

and  Mary  College  before  the  Royal  Governor,  in  1702,  and,  in 
1736,  the  students  were  presenting  Addison's  "Cato."  In  1714, 
in  Massachusetts,  Chief  Justice  Samuel  Sewall,  famed  for  his 
witchcraft  injunctions,  protested  against  acting  in  Boston,  and 
warned  the  people  in  this  fashion:  "Let  not  Christian  Boston  goe 
beyond  Heathen  Rome  in  the  practice  of  Shameful  Vanities." 

Evidently  the  actors  who  had  appeared  in  New  York  from  the 
West  Indies,  in  1702,  were,  by  an  ill  wind,  blown  into  the  sharp- 
prejudiced  atmosphere  of  New  England.  Some  authorities  are 
inclined  to  believe  that  Thomas  Kean's  appearance  on  March  5, 
1750,  in  New  York,  when,  as  noted  by  the  Weekly  Postboy,  he 
gave  a  performance  of  "Richard  III,"  with  permission  of  Gov 
ernor  Clinton,  really  begins  the  history  of  legitimate  theatrical 
performances  in  America.  This,  however,  is  not  historically  ac 
curate,  for,  in  South  Carolina,  it  is  noted  that  the  first  dramatic 
production  occurred  in  1734  or  1735,  January  i8th,  although  the 
first  Charleston  theatre  was  afterwards  erected  in  1773,  the  third 
regular  theatre  to  be  established  in  the  Colonies.  (See  The 
Nation,  99:278-279;  Yates  Snowden,  "South  Carolina  Plays  and 
Playwrights,"  The  Carolinian,  November,  1909.) 

The  disputed  point  as  to  the  first  theatre  in  America  has  also 
been  very  thoroughly  discussed  by  Judge  Charles  P.  Daly  in  his 
brochure,  "The  First  Theatre  in  America."  (Dunlap  Society, 
New  Series,  No.  i,  1896.) 

In  1755,  the  Reverend  Samuel  Davies,  whose  eloquence  made 
him  quite  as  much  an  actor  as  a  divine,  complained  of  conditions 
in  Virginia,  declaring  that  plays  and  romances  were  more  read 
than  "the  history  of  the  Blessed  Jesus." 

The  real  narrative  of  Colonial  acting,  however,  begins  with 
William  Hallam's  appearance  in  Williamsburg  in  "The  Mer 
chant  of  Venice,"  on  September  5,  1752;  thereafter,  as  is  so  ex 
cellently  traced  in  Seilhamer,  the  American  Theatre,  with  its  dif 
ferent  itinerant  companies,  began  to  flourish. 

The  theatre  was  such  a  recreation  to  the  Colonial  people  that, 
in  many  ways,  it  figured  as  the  one  source  of  official  entertain 
ment;  especially  on  occasions  when  the  Royal  Governor  had  to 
show  hospitality  to  visiting  people.  For  example,  the  Maryland 
Gazette  for  November  17,  1752,  declares  that  "The  Emperor  of 
the  Cherokee  nation,  with  his  Empress  and  their  son,  the  young 
Prince,  attended  by  several  of  his  warriors  and  Great  Men,  and 
their  Ladies,  were  received  at  the  Palace  by  his  Honour  the  Gov- 


Introduction  9 

ernor,  attended  by  such  of  the  Council  as  were  in  Town  on  Thurs 
day,  the  9th  instant,  with  all  the  Marks  of  Courtesy  and  Friend 
ship,  and  were  that  Evening  entertained  at  the  Theatre  with  the 
Play  (the  Tragedy  of  'Othello'),  and  a  Pantomime  Performance 
which  gave  them  great  surprise,  as  did  the  fighting  with  naked 
swords  on  the  Stage,  which  occasioned  the  Empress  to  order 
some  about  her  to  go  and  prevent  them  killing  one  another." 

The  spirit  of  the  theatre-going  at  this  period  has  been  excel 
lently  suggested  by  John  Esten  Cook  in  his  novel,  ''The  Virginia 
Comedians,"  but  the  reader  who  will  consult  rare  files  of  Colonial 
newspapers  will  find  therein  many  advertisements  which  will 
throw  light  on  some  of  the  social  details  of  the  theatre.  It  is 
enough  here  to  suggest,  that,  in  the  reading  of  the  different  plays 
here  offered,  some  consideration  be  paid  to  the  general  theatrical 
atmosphere  which  created  and  fostered  them. 

In  several  of  the  Introductions  the  editor  has  had  occasion  to 
mention  the  exercises  and  dialogues  and  plays  given  in  the  col 
leges  before  the  Revolution.  These  were  the  distinctive  forms 
which  time  and  occasion  created;  otherwise  the  early  American 
dramatist  framed  his  pieces  in  imitation  of  English  and  German 
tradition.  However,  as  soon  as  the  national  period  began,  an 
other  interesting  dramatic  experiment  was  put  into  effect.  This 
has  been  noted  by  W.  W.  Clapp,  in  his  chapter  written  for  Justin 
Winsor's  "Commemorative  History  of  Boston."  He  says: 

"[It  was]  the  custom  in  the  earlier  days  of  the  theatre  to  signal 
ize  passing  events  by  such  appropriate  notice  as  the  resources  of 
the  stage  would  permit." 

In  other  words,  the  event  called  forth  from  the  Manager,  be 
cause  of  commercial  possibilities,  certain  spectacular  scenes  to  at 
tract  the  patriotic  notice  of  the  people.  Manager  Hodgkinson, 
on  September  20,  1797,  celebrated  the  launching  of  the  frigate 
Constitution.1  On  January  8,  1800,  at  the  New  York  Theatre,  an 
"Ode  on  the  Death  of  General  Washington"  was  recited  by  Mr. 
Hodgkinson,  written  by  Samuel  Low.  It  is  interesting  here  to 
note  likewise  that  Royall  Tyler  pronounced  a  Eulogy  on  Wash 
ington  at  Bennington,  Vermont,  on  February  22,  1800. 

A  patriotic  effusion,  celebrating  the  capture  of  the  British 
frigate  Guerrihe,  was  produced  on  October  2,  1812.  In  1813,  to 

1  Dunlap.  himself  atune  to  the  hour,  wrote  "Yankee  Chronology;  or,  Huzza 
for  the  Constitution" — "a  musical  Interlude,  in  One  Act,  to  which  are  added,  The 
Patriotic  Songs  of  the  Freedom  of  the  Seas,  and  Yankee  Tars,"  produced  at  the 
Park  Theatre,  New  York,  1812.  Dunlap  wrote  many  pieces  of  like  character. 


io  Representative  Plays 

commemorate  the  victory  of  Perry,  a  piece  was  mounted,  en 
titled,  "Heroes  of  the  Lake;  or,  the  Glorious  Tenth  of  Sep 
tember."  Another  piece,  equally  as  suggestive  in  its  title,  was 
"The  Sailor's  Return;  or,  Constitution  Safe  in  Port." 

When  the  Marquis  de  Lafayette  visited  the  United  States  in 
1825,  and  was  taken  to  the  theatre,  the  occasion  was  celebrated 
by  an  appropriate  "drop."  In  other  words,  the  Manager,  even  in 
those  days,  had  the  commercial  instinct  fully  developed. 

*     #     # 

In  the  preparation  of  the  present  collection,  the  editor  wishes 
to  thank  those  who  have  been  generous  in  their  advice  and  appre 
ciation  of  the  work  in  hand.  Being  a  pioneer  effort,  the  original 
research  necessitated  has  been  of  an  extensive  character.  I  have 
had,  in  order  to  verify  my  data,  to  correspond  extensively,  not 
only  with  the  members  of  the  families  of  the  different  playwrights, 
but  with  many  historical  societies  and  libraries.  I  have  likewise 
had  the  advantage  of  being  able  to  consult  with  Dr.  F.  W.  At 
kinson,  of  the  Brooklyn  Polytechnic,  whose  collection  of  Ameri 
can  Drama  is  probably  one  of  the  richest  in  the  country,  and 
with  Professor  Brander  Matthews,  whose  interest  in  all  drama 
makes  the  historian  continually  in  his  debt.  Certain  information 
concerning  Royall  Tyler  has  been  furnished  me  by  members  of 
the  Tyler  family,  including  Mrs.  E.  L.  Pratt,  of  Boston.  In  their 
proper  places,  when  the  plays  occur,  certain  credits  and  references 
will  be  found,  but  it  is  a  pleasure  for  me  here  to  thank  Mr.  Percy 
Mackaye,  Mr.  David  Belasco,  Mr.  Langdon  Mitchell,  Mr. 
Augustus  Thomas,  the  Clyde  Fitch  Estate,  and  the  Bronson  How 
ard  Estate,  for  their  generous  cooperation  in  bringing  the  present 
collection  to  a  successful  issue.  The  privilege  is  also  mine  to 
thank  Mr.  L.  Nelson  Nichols,  of  the  Americana  Division,  and 
Mr.  Victor  H.  Paltsits,  in  charge  of  the  Manuscript  Division,  of 
the  New  York  Public  Library,  together  with  other  officials  of  that 
Library,  of  Columbia  University,  and  of  the  Library  Company  of 
Philadelphia,  and  Miss  Z.  K.  Macdonald,  for  their  unfailing 
courtesy  and  untiring  efforts  in  my  behalf. 

In  order  to  preserve  uniformity  of  style  throughout  the  text  of 
the  plays  certain  modifications  in  punctuation  and  spelling  have 
been  adopted. 

MONTROSE  J.  MOSES. 

February  22,  1917. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  GENERAL  WORKS 

Some  of  the  most  important  works  on  the  history  of  the  Ameri 
can  Drama  and  the  American  Theatre  are  given  herewith. 
Under  each  author,  there  will  be  found  short  individual  bibliog 
raphies,  and  in  the  succeeding  volumes  of  the  Collection,  other 
general  references  will  be  given  which  will  throw  light  on  the 
theatrical  conditions  of  the  particular  theatre  periods.  Naturally, 
books  relating  to  modern  conditions  will  be  reserved  for  the  third 
volume. 

ALLIBONE,  S.  AUSTIN.    A  Critical  Dictionary  of  English  Litera 
ture  and  British  and  American  Authors.     (3  vols.)     Philadel 
phia:  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.    1874.    (Supplement  to  Allibone. 
By  John  Foster  Kirk.    Lippincott,  1891,  2  vols.) 
ATKINSON,  F.  W.    List  of  American  Drama  in  the  Atkinson  Col 
lection.    1756-1915.    Brooklyn,  January  I,  1916. 
BATES,   ALFRED.     Drama.     Vols.   XIX,   XX.     For  American 

Drama. 
BECKS.     Collection  of  Prompt  Books  in  the  New  York  Public 

Library.    Bulletin,  February,  1906,  pp.  100-148. 
BROWN,  T.  ALLSTON.    A  History  of  the  New  York  Stage.   From 
the  First  Performance  in  1732  to  1901.    (3  vols.)    New  York: 
Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.    1903. 
BURTON,  RICHARD.     The  New  American  Drama.     New  York: 

Thomas  Y.  Crowell  Co.    1913. 
CLAPP,  WILLIAM  W.,  JR.    A  Record  of  the  Boston  Stage.  Boston : 

James  Munroe  and  Company.    1853. 

CLARK,  BARRETT  H.    The  British  and  American  Drama  of  To 
day.    New  York:    Henry  Holt  &  Co.    1915. 
CRAWFORD,  MARY  CAROLINE.    The  Romance  of  the  American 

Theatre.    Boston :  Little,  Brown  &  Co.     1913. 
DALY,  HON.  CHARLES  P.     First  Theatre  in  America:     When 
Was  the  Drama  First  Introduced  in  America?    An  Inquiry. 
Dunlap  Soc.  Pub.,  n.  s.  i,  1896. 

DICKINSON,  THOMAS  H.    The  Case  of  American  Drama.    Boston : 
Houghton  Mifflin  Co.     1915. 


12  Representative  Plays 

DUNLAP,  WILLIAM.  History  of  the  American  Theatre.  London: 
Richard  Bentley.  1833. 

DURANG,  CHARLES.  History  of  the  Philadelphia  Stage.  1749- 
1855.  (Published  serially  in  the  Philadelphia  Dispatch.} 

DUYCKINCK,  EVERT  A.  and  GEORGE  L.  The  Cyclopedia  of  Ameri 
can  Literature:  From  the  Earliest  Period  to  the  Present  Day. 
Philadelphia:  William  Rutter  &  Co.  1877.  (2  vols.) 

EVANS,  CHARLES.  v  American  Biography.  8  vols.  Privately 
Printed. 

FAXON,  FREDERICK  W.  Dramatic  Index.  Boston  Book  Co. 
19095*2. 

FORD,  PAUL  LEICESTER.    The  Beginnings  of  American  Dramatic  V 
Literature.  New  England  Magazine,  n.  s.  9: 673-687,  February, 
1894. 

FORD,  PAUL  LEICESTER.  Some  Notes  Toward  an  Essay  on  the 
Beginnings  of  American  Dramatic  Literature.  1606-1789. 

FORD,  PAUL  LEICESTER.  Washington  and  the  Theatre.  Dunlap 
Soc.  Pub.,  n.  s.  8,  1899. 

GAISFORD,  JOHN.    Drama  in  New  Orleans.    New  Orleans.    1849. 

GRISWOLD,  RUFUS  WILMOT.  Female  Poets  of  America,  With  Ad 
ditions  by  R.  H.  Stoddard.  New  York,  1843-1873. 

GRISWOLD,  RUFUS  WILMOT.  Prose  Writers  of  America.  Phila 
delphia:  Parry  &  McMillan.  1854. 

HARRIS,  C.  FISKE.  Index  to  American  Poetry  and  Plays  in  the 
Collection  of.  Providence,  187-. 

HARRISON,  GABRIEL.    History  of  the  Drama  in  Brooklyn. 

HASKELL,  DANIEL  C.  (Compiler.)  American  Dramas,  A  List  of, 
in  the  New  York  Public  Library.  New  York,  1916.  (See  also 
Bulletin  of  the  New  York  Public  Library,  October,  1915.) 

HILDEBURN,  CHARLES  R.  The  Issues  of  the  Press  in  Pennsyl 
vania.  Philadelphia,  1886. 

HUTTON,  LAURENCE.  Curiosities  of  the  American  Stage.  New 
York:  Harper  &  Bros.  1891. 

IRELAND,  JOSEPH  N.  Records  of  the  New  York  Stage,  from  1750 
to  1860.  (2  vols.)  New  York:  T.  H.  Morrell,  Publisher.  1866. 

LUDLOW,  N.  M.  Dramatic  Life  as  I  Found  It:  A  Record  of  Per 
sonal  Experience  with  an  Account  of  the  Drama  in  the  West 
and  South.  St.  Louis:  G.  I.  Jones  &  Co.  1880. 

MATTHEWS,  J.  B.    American  on  the  Stage.    Scribner,  28 : 321. 

MATTHEWS,  J.  B.  A  Book  About  the  Theatre.  New  York: 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  1916. 


Bibliography  13 

MOSES,  MONTROSE  J.  The  American  Dramatist.  Boston: 
Little,  Brown  &  Co.  1917. 

MOSES,  MONTROSE  J.  Famous  Actor  -  Families  in  America. 
New  York:  Thomas  Y.  Crowell  &  Co.  1906. 

PENCE,  JAMES  HARRY.  (Compiler.)  The  Magazine  and  the 
Drama.  An  Index.  New  York:  The  Dunlap  Society.  1896. 

PHELPS,  H.  P.  Players  of  a  Century.  A  Record  of  the  Albany 
Stage.  Albany,  1880. 

REES,  J.    The  Dramatic  Authors  of  America.  Philadelphia,  1845. 

RODEN,  ROBERT  F.  Later  American  Plays.  1831-1900.  New 
York:  The  Dunlap  Society.  (1900,  n.  s.  12.) 

SABIN,  JOSEPH.  Dictionary  of  Books  Relating  to  America.  From 
Its  Discovery  to  the  Present  Time.  Vol.  I,  seq.  New  York: 
1868  seq. 

SABINE,  LORENZO.  Biographical  Sketches  of  Loyalists  of  the 
American  Revolution.  (2vols.)  Boston:  Little,  Brown  &  Co. 
1864. 

SCHARF,  J.  THOMAS,  and  WESTCOTT,  THOMPSON.  History  of 
Philadelphia.  1609-1884.  Philadelphia:  L.  H.  Everts  &  Co. 
1884. 

V/SEARS,  ALONZO.    American  Literature  in  the  Colonial  and  Na 
tional  Periods.    Boston:  Little,  Brown  &  Co.   1902. 

SEILHAMER,  GEORGE  O.  I.  History  of  the  American  Theatre  Be 
fore  the  Revolution.  Philadelphia,  1888.  II.  History  of  the 
American  Theatre  During  the  Revolution  and  After.  Phila 
delphia,  1889.  III.  History  of  the  American  Theatre:  New 
Foundations.  Philadelphia,  1891. 

SIMPSON,  HENRY.  The  Lives  of  Eminent  Philadelphians,  Now 
Deceased.  Collected  from  Original  and  Authentic  Sources. 
Philadelphia:  William  Brotherhead.  1859. 

SMITH,  SOLOMON  FRANKLIN.  Theatrical  Management  in  the 
West  and  South  for  Thirty  Years,  with  Anecdotal  Sketches. 
New  York:  Harper  &  Bros.  1868. 

SONNECK,  OSCAR  GEORGE  THEODORE.  Catalogue  of  Opera  Li 
brettos  Printed  Before  1800.  (2  vols.)  Washington:  Govern 
ment  Printing  Office.  1914. 

SONNECK,  O.  G.  T.  Early  Opera  in  America.  New  York:  G. 
Schirmer.  1915. 

SONNECK,  O.  G.  T.  Report  on  the  Star-Spangled  Banner,  Hail 
Columbia,  America,  and  Yankee  Doodle.  Washington:  Gov 
ernment  Printing  Office.  1909. 


14  Representative  Plays 

STONE,    HENRY    DICKINSON.      Personal    Recollections   of    the 

Drama.    Albany,  1873. 
Times,  New  York.     The  Early  Theatre.     December  15,  1895, 

P.  13- 
TOMPKINS,  EUGENE,  and  KILBY,  QUINCY.    History  of  the  Boston 

Theatre.    Boston:  Hough  ton  Mifflin  Co.   1908. 
TYLER,  MOSES  COIT.     The  Literary  History  of  the  American 

Revolution.    1763-1783.  (2  vols.)  New  York:  G.P.Putnam's 

Sons.    1897. 
WEGELIN,  OSCAR.    The  Beginning  of  the  Drama  in  America. 

Literary  Collector,  9:177-181,  1905. 
WEGELIN,  OSCAR.     Early  American  Plays.     1714-1830. 

York:  The  Literary  Collector  Press.    1905.    (See  Dunlap  Soc. 

Pub.,  n.  s.  10,  1900;  also  the  Literary  Collector,  2:82-84.) 
WEMYSS,  F.  C.    Chronology  of  the  American  Stage  from  1752^' 

to  1852.    New  York:  Wm.  Taylor  &  Co. 
WEMYSS,  F.  C.    Twenty-six  Years  of  the  Life  of  an  Actor  and 

Manager.  (2  vols.)    New  York:  Burgess,  Stringer  &  Co.    1847. 
WILKINS,  FREDERICK  H.    Early  Influence  of  German  Literature 

in  America.    Americana  Germanica,  3:103-205,  1899. 
WILLARD,  GEORGE  O.    History  of  the  Providence  Stage.    1762- 

1891.    Providence:  R.  I.  News  Co.   1891. 
WILSON,  JAMES  GRANT.    (Editor.)  The  Memorial  History  of  the 

City  of  New  York.   (4  vols.)   New  York  History  Co.   1892  seq. 
WINSOR,  JUSTIN.    The  Memorial  History  of  Boston,  including 

Suffolk  Co.,  Mass.    1630-1880.    Boston :  Ticknor  &  Co.    1880. 
WINTER,  WILLIAM.    The  Wallet  of  Time.    (2  vols.)    New  York: 

Moffat,  Yard  &  Co.    1913. 

WOOD,  WILLIAM  B.    Personal  Recollections  of  the  Stage.    Em 
bracing  Notices  of  Actors,  Authors,  and  Auditors,  During  a 

Period  of  Forty  Years.    Philadelphia:    Henry  Carey  Baird. 

1855. 


INDIVIDUAL  BIBLIOGRAPHIES  FOR  PLAYS 

Only  essential  references  are  given,  and  wherever  possible  the 
author's  name  is  indicated,  rather  than  the  title.  In  such  cases, 
the  full  title  of  the  reference  may  be  had  by  consulting  the  Gen 
eral  Bibliography. 

THOMAS  GODFREY,  JR. 

William  Allen,  American  Biographical  Dictionary;  Dunlap,i,5O; 
Seilhamer,  i,  185;  Tyler,  Consult  Index;  Journal  of  William 
Black;  Journal  of  Sarah  Eve,  Extracts  from  the:  Written  while 
living  near  the  City  of  Philadelphia  in  1772-1773  (Philadelphia, 
1881);  American  Museum,  471-472;  Journal  National  Institute 
Sciences,  i:  165,  1915;  Nation,  100:415,  April  15,  1915. 
MAJOR  ROBERT  ROGERS 

Allibone;  Appleton's  Cyclopedia  of  American  Biography; 
Dictionary  of  National  Biography ;  Duyckinck;  Ryerson,  Ameri 
can  Loyalists;  Sabin;  Sabine,  American  Loyalists;  Tyler; 
Winsor.  Ellis  P.  Oberholtzer,  Literary  History  of  Philadelphia 
(1906);  Sears.  Canadian  Magazine,  1914,  42:316-318;  Dial 
(Chicago),  59:68-69;  97,  1915;  Historical  Magazine  (New  York), 
April,  1860,  127;  New  England  Magazine,  1894,  n.  s.  9:678; 
Royal  Society  of  Canada  Proceedings  and  Transactions,  ser.  2, 
vol.  6,  sec.  2,  pp.  49-59,  Ottawa,  1900.  The  reader  is  also  re 
ferred  to  the  Nevins  re-issue  of  "Ponteach,"  in  which  full  bibliog 
raphies  are  given;  also  to  Parkman's  "History  of  the  Conspiracy 
of  Pontiac."  Consult  Caleb  Stark's  "Memoir  and  Official  Corre 
spondence  of  Gen.  John  Stark,  with  Notices  of  Several  other 
Officers  of  the  Revolution.  Also,  a  Biography  of  Capt.  Phinehas 
Stevens,  and  of  Colonel  Robert  Rogers"  (1860). 
MRS.  MERCY  WARREN 

Alice  Brown,  "Mercy  Warren"  (Women  of  Colonial  and  Revo 
lutionary  Times).  New  York:  Scribner's,  1896;  Duyckinck; 
Ellet,  Women  of  the  American  Revolution;  Fiske,  John, 
American  Revolution ;  Griswold,  Female  Poets  of  America;  Mrs. 
Hale,  Woman's  Record;  Rees,  132;  Seilhamer,  ii,  3;  Winsor, 
Boston;  Wegelin.  Adams,  Works  of  John — ed.  by  Charles  Fran 
cis  Adams. — Consult  Index;  Blackwood  Magazine,  xvii,  203;  Cor- 


1 6  Representative  Plays 

respondence  Relating  to  Mrs.  Warren's  History  of  the  American 
Revolution,  Mass.  Hist.  Coll.,  sen  5,  v.  4,  315-511;  Harper's 
Magazine,  1884,  68:749;  New  England  Magazine,  1894,  n-  s- 
9: 680;  North  American  Review,  Ixviii,  415.  In  studying  first  edi 
tions  of  plays,  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  Bibliographies  of 
Charles  Evans  and  Charles  Hildeburn. 

HUGH  HENRY  BRACKENRIDGE 

Allibone;  Duyckinck;  Victor  H.  Paltsits,  A  Bibliography  of 
the  Separate  and  Collected  Works  of  Philip  Freneau  (including 
Brackenridge) — New  York:  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  1903;  1846 
edition  of  Brackenridge's  "Modern  Chivalry,"  containing  a  bio 
graphical  sketch  by  his  son;  Oberholtzer;  Tyler;  United  States 
Magazine  (in  the  collection  of  the  Historical  Society  of  Pennsyl 
vania).  The  reader  is  also  referred  to  Mary  S.  Austin's  "Philip 
Freneau,  the  Poet  of  the  Revolution:  A  History  of  his  Life  and 
Times"  (1901);  F.  L.  Pattee's  "The  Poems  of  Philip  Freneau: 
Poet  of  the  American  Revolution" — Edited  for  the  Princeton 
Historical  Association,  3  volumes,  1902-1907;  Samuel  Davies 
Alexander's  "Princeton  College  during  the  Eighteenth  Century;" 
James  Madison's  Correspondence  while  at  College;  W.  C. 
Armor's  "Lives  of  the  Governors  of  Pennsylvania,"  for  a  picture 
and  an  account  of  the  administration  of  Governor  Thomas 
Mackean.  Consult  also,  for  college  atmosphere,  the  Journals  of 
Philip  Fithian,  and  the  Correspondence  of  the  Rev.  Ezra  Stiles, 
Letter  of  July  23,  1762,  published  by  the  Yale  Press.  (Styles  en 
couraged  "The  Mercenary  Match,"  by  Barnabas  Bidwell.) 

JOHN  LEACOCK 

Durang;  Duyckinck;  Hildeburn;  Ford;  Sabin;  Seilhamer, ii,  10; 
Tyler;  "New  Travels  through  North-America."  Translated  from 
the  Original  of  the  Abbe  Robin  [Claude  C.],  one  of  the  Chaplains 
to  the  French  Army  in  America,  1783.  (Observations  made  in 
1781);  Sonneck's  "Early  Opera  in  America;"  Watson's  "Annals 
of  Philadelphia;"  Philadelphia  Directories  as  mentioned  in  text. 

SAMUEL  Low 

Dunlap;  Duyckinck;  Sabin;  Seilhamer,  ii,  284;  Stedman- 
Hutchinson,  Cyclopedia  of  American  Literature;  New  York 
Directories  as  mentioned. 

ROY  ALL  TYLER 

Allibone;  Appleton's  Cyclopedia  of  American  Biography; 
Dunlap,  i,  137;  Duyckinck;  Ireland,  i,  76;  Stedman-Hutchin- 


Individual  Bibliographies  17 

son,  Library  of  American  Literature;  Winsor;  "Memoirs  of  the 
Hon.  Royall  Tyler:  Late  Chief  Justice  of  Vermont.  Compiled 
from  his  Papers  by  his  son,  Thomas  Pickman  Tyler,  1873" 
(Unpublished).  According  to  information  (1917),  this  manu 
script,  incomplete,  is  being  brought  to  a  close  by  Helen  Tyler 
Brown,  great-granddaughter  of  the  Judge.  There  is  likewise  a 
life  of  Mary  Tyler,  unpublished,  written  by  herself  when  quite  an 
old  woman. 

Consult  also:  J.  T.  Buckingham's  "Personal  Memoirs  and 
Recollections,"  2  vols.,  1852;  J.  T.  Buckingham's  "Specimens  of 
Newspaper  Literature,"  2  vols.,  1850;  Vermont  Bar  Association 
Proceedings,  1878-1886,  vol.  i,  pp.  44-62,  an  article  by  the  Rev. 
Thomas  P.  Tyler,  D.D.,  of  Brattleboro;  Harold  Milton  Ellis's 
"Joseph  Dennie  and  His  Circle:  A  Study  in  American  Literature 
from  1792  to  1812." — Studies  in  English,  No.  I,  Bulletin  of  the 
University  of  Texas,  No.  40,  July  15,  1915;  John  Trumbull's 
"Autobiographical  Reminiscences  and  Letters,  1756-1841."  The 
correspondence  relating  to  Shays's  Rebellion  is  to  be  found  in 
"Brattleboro,  Wyndham  Co.,  Vermont,  Early  History,  with 
Biographical  Sketches.  Henry  Burnham." — Edited  by  Abby 
Maria  Hemenway  (Includes  an  excellent  picture  of  Royall  Tyler) ; 
William  Willis's  "The  Law,  the  Courts  and  the  Lawyers  of 
Maine' '  ( 1 863) .  Further  references  to  Tyler  are  contained  in  Rees, 
131;  Mitchell,  American  Lands;  John  Adams'  Works;  Sonneck's 
"Opera  in  America,"  under  "May-day  in  Town;"  Seilhamer, 
ii,  227;  Delineator  (New  York),  85:7;  New  England  Magazine, 
1894,  n.  s.  9:674;  North  American  Review,  July,  1858,  281. 

Among  Tyler's  works,  other  than  those  mentioned  in  the  In 
troduction,  may  be  recorded : 

1.  "The  Algerine  Captive;  or,  The  Life  and  Adventures  of  Dr. 
Updike  Underhill,  Six  Years  a  Prisoner  Among  the  Algerines." 
2  vols.     Wai  pole,  N.  H.,  1797. 

2.  "Moral  Tales  for  American  Youths."    Boston,  1800. 

3.  "The  Yankee  in  London:  A  Series  of  Letters,  written  by  an 
American  Youth  during  Nine  Months  of  Residence  in  the  City 
of  London."    New  York,  1809. 

4.  Tyler  wrote  for  the  newspapers  with  Joseph  Dennie,  Walpole, 
N.  H.,  and  published  selections  from  his  contributions  under 
the  title  of  "The  Spirit  of  the  Farmer's  Museum  and  Lay 
Preacher's  Gazette."     He  also   contributed   poems   to   the 
Farmer's  Weekly  Museum,  to  the  Portfolio,  to  the  Columbia 


1 8  Representative  Plays 

Centinel,  to  the  New  England  Galaxy,  and  to  the  Polyanthus. 
Prose  works  were  likewise  included  therein.  Some  of  his  con 
tributions  to  the  Farmer's  Museum  were  gathered  together  in 
1798  under  the  title  of  "Colon  and  Spondee  Papers,"  and 
issued  by  the  pioneer  American  printer,  Isaiah  Thomas. 

WILLIAM  DUNLAP 

The  reader  is  referred  to  Dunlap's  own  "History  of  the  Amer 
ican  Theatre,"  and  to  his  numerous  other  prose  works,  notably 
his  Lives  of  Charles  Brockden  Brown  and  George  Frederick 
Cooke.  The  Dunlap  Society's  Reprints  of  "Andre"  (iv.  1887), 
"Darby's  Return"  (n.  s.  8,  1899),  and  "The  Father"  (ii,  1887) 
contain  biographical  data.  See  Oscar  Wegelin's  ' 'William  Dunlap 
and  His  Writings,"  Literary  Collector,  7:69-76,  1904;  O.  S. 
Coad's  "William  Dunlap:  A  Study  of  his  Life  and  Writings,  and 
of  Contemporary  Culture"  (scheduled  for  issuance  by  the  Dunlap 
Society  in  1917);  Dunlap's  Diary,  in  the  Library  of  the  New 
York  Historical  Society:  Vol.  14,  July  27~Dec.  13,  1797;  vol. 
15,  Dec.  14,  1797-June  i,  1798;  vol.  24,  Oct.  15,  i8i9-April  14, 
1820;  vol.  30,  June  27,  i833~Dec.  31,  1834.  Consult  also 
Duyckinck;  Rees,  76;  Stedman-Hutchinson,  Library  of  Ameri 
can  Literature;  Seilhamer,  Index;  Wood,  Personal  Recollec 
tions;  Sonneck's  "The  Musical  Side  of  George  Washington;" 
Analytical  Magazine,  i,  404,  466;  New  England  Magazine,  1894, 
n.  s.  9,  684.  See  Wegelin,  Evans,  Hildeburn. 

JAMES  NELSON  BARKER 

Dunlap,  ii,  307;  Durang;  Ireland;  Rees;  Diary  of  Manager 
Wood,  in  possession  of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania.  Also 
Griswold's  "Poets  and  Poetry  of  America;"  Oberholtzer's  "Lit 
erary  History  of  Philadelphia;"  Simpson.  Barker's  political 
writings  were  extensive. 

MORDECAI  MANUEL  NOAH 

Dunlap,  ii,  316;  Ireland,  i,  356;  Jewish  Encyclopedia;  Na 
tional  Cyclopedia  of  American  Biography.  See  also  Allibone; 
Duyckinck;  P.  K.  Foley's  "American  Authors;"  Oberholtzer's 
"Literary  History  of  Philadelphia;"  Rees;  Scharf  and  Westcott; 
James  Grant  Wilson's  "Fitz-Green  Halleck;"  International 
Magazine,  iii,  282;  American  Jewish  Historical  Society  Pub., 
No.  6,  1897,  113-121;  Lippincott,  i,  665;  J.  T.  Trowbridge's  "My 
Own  Story.  With  Recollections  of  Noted  Persons"  (1903). 


THE 

PRINCE   OF   PARTHIA 

A    TRAGEDY 


THOMAS  GODFREY,  JR. 

(1736-1763) 

Thomas  Godfrey,  Jr.,  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  on  December 
4,  1763,  the  son  of  a  man  who  himself  won  fame  as  an  inventor  of 
the  Quadrant.  Godfrey,  Senior,  was  a  friend  of  Benjamin  Frank 
lin,  the  two  probably  having  been  drawn  together  by  their  com 
mon  interest  in  science.  When  Godfrey,  Senior,  died,  December, 
1749,  it  was  Franklin  who  wrote  his  obituary  notice.1 

Young  Godfrey  was  a  student  at  the  College  or  Academy  of 
Philadelphia,  and  when  his  education  was  completed,  he  became 
apprenticed  to  a  watch-maker,  remaining  in  that  profession  until 
1758.  As  a  student  at  the  Academy,  he  came  under  the  special 
influence  of  Dr.  William  Smith,  the  first  Principal  or  Provost  of 
that  institution,2  and  it  was  Dr.  Smith  who  not  only  obtained 
for  Godfrey  a  lieutenancy  with  the  Pennsylvania  troops  in  1758, 
which  sent  him  in  the  expedition  against  Fort  Duquesne,  but  who, 
likewise,  as  the  Editor  of  The  American  Magazine,  was  only  too 
glad  to  accept  and  publish  some  of  Godfrey's  poetical  effusions. 

That  the  young  man  was  popular,  and  that  he  associated  with 
some  of  the  most  promising  figures  of  the  time,  will  be  seen  from 
the  fact  that,  although  he  was  only  twenty-seven  when  he  died, 
he  was  counted  among  the  friends  of  Benjamin  West  and  John 
Green,  both  portrait  painters,  of  Francis  Hopkinson,  who  was 
a  student  at  the  College  of  Philadelphia,  and  of  Nathaniel  Evans, 
a  young  minister  whose  loyalty  found  outlet  after  Godfrey's 
death  in  the  Memorial  Edition  of  Godfrey's  works.  Evans  him 
self  wrote  poems  and  dialogues.  In  his  confirmation  of  the  fact 
that,  as  a  poet,  Godfrey  was  regarded  favourably  by  the  Philadel- 
phians  of  the  time,  he  quotes  from  the  diary  of  one  Miss  Sarah 
Eve,  who  referred  to  him  as  "our  poet." 

1 A  notice  appeared  in  the  Pennsylvania  Gazette,  December  19,  1749.  See  Scharf 
and  Westcott's  "History  of  Philadelphia"  for  references  to  Godfrey,  Sr.  Therein 
is  given  a  picture  of  his  house  in  Germantown,  Pa.  Barlow  mentions  him  in  his 
"Cplumbiad."  A  monument  to  his  memory  was  erected  in  Laurel  Hill  Cemetery, 
Philadelphia,  1843.  Note  that  David  Rittenhouse,  an  American  dramatist  who 
translated,  from  the  German,  "Lucy  Sampson;  or,  The  Unhappy  Heiress"  (1789), 
was  likewise  a  mathematical  genius. 

2  Accounts  of  Dr.  Smith  are  to  be  found  in  Henry  Simpson's  "Eminent  Phila- 
delphians";  Scharf  &  Westcott's  "History  of  Philadelphia,"  ii,  1126.  Dr.  Smith's 
"Life  and  Correspondence,"  by  Horace  Wemyss  Smith,  was  issued  in  2  vols.,  1879. 


22  Representative  Plays 

Godfrey's  reputation,  as  a  young  man  with  musical  talents  and 
a  decided  taste  for  painting,  has  come  down  to  us.  Certain  it  is 
that,  during  all  of  this  time  of  varied  occupation  as  a  watch 
maker  and  a  soldier,  he  must  have  been  courting  the  poetic  Muse. 
There  are  some  who  speculate,  without  authority,  on  his  having 
been  a  theatre-goer,  and  having  become  inspired  as  a  playwright 
by  the  work  of  the  American  Company,  in  Philadelphia;  espe 
cially  by  the  good  work  of  Douglass.  Because  of  insufficient  evi 
dence,  that  is  a  question  which  remains  unproven.  Nevertheless, 
it  is  certain,  from  an  extant  letter  written  by  Godfrey  on  Novem 
ber  17,  1759,  and  quoted  by  Seilhamer,  that  he  must  have  had  his 
attention  turned  to  playwriting  as  a  special  art.  He  says  to  his 
correspondent,  writing  from  North  Carolina: 

By  the  last  vessel  from  this  place,  I  sent  you  the  copy  of  a  tragedy 
I  finished  here,  and  desired  your  interest  in  bringing  it  on  the  stage; 
I  have  not  yet  heard  of  the  vessel's  safe  arrival,  and  believe  if  she 
is  safe  it  will  be  too  late  for  the  company  now  in  Philadelphia. 
[Meaning,  of  course,  Douglass's  company.] 

There  are  two  facts  to  be  noted  in  this  communication :  first, 
that  it  was  written  from  North  Carolina,  where,  in  1759,  Godfrey 
had  gone  on  some  plantation  business — probably  as  factor;  and 
second,  that  it  must  have  been  penned  with  the  idea  of  immediate 
production  by  the  actors  in  Philadelphia.  According  to  Seil 
hamer,  Godfrey  remained  in  North  Carolina  for  three  years. 
He  did  not  write  the  entire  manuscript  of  "The  Prince  of  Parthia" 
while  living  in  the  South  but,  as  he  definitely  states  in  his  letter, 
finished  it  soon  after  his  arrival. 

There  is  no  evidence  as  to  why  Godfrey  sailed  to  the  Island  of 
New  Providence  in  the  last  year  of  his  life,  and  then  returned  to 
Wilmington,  N.  C.  There  is  no  definite  statement  as  to  whether 
he  contracted  fever  and  had  a  sunstroke  on  that  expedition,  or 
after  his  return  home.  But,  nevertheless,  he  did  contract  the 
fever  and  have  a  sunstroke ;  with  the  result  that  he  succumbed  to 
his  illness,  and  died  near  Wilmington,  North  Carolina,  on  August 

3.  1763- l 

After  his  death,  Godfrey's  friends  decided  among  themselves 
that  the  young  man  was  too  much  of  a  genius  for  them  to  allow 
his  productions  to  remain  scattered  and  unrecognized.  Evi 
dently,  correspondence  regarding  this  must  have  taken  place  be 
tween  Dr.  Smith,  Nathaniel  Evans,  the  young  minister,  and  John 

1  Visitors  to  Wilmington,  N.  C.,  will  be  taken  to  Old  St.  James's  Church-yard, 
where  Godfrey  lies  buried. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  23 

Green,  the  portrait  painter.  For,  in  1765,  a  book  was  published, 
entitled  "Juvenile  Poems  on  Various  Subjects,  with  the  Prince  of 
Parthia,"  printed  in  Philadelphia  by  one  Henry  Miller.1  The 
volume  contained  a  life  written  by  Evans,  a  critical  estimate 
written  by  Dr.  Smith,  of  the  College  of  Philadelphia,  and  an  Elegy 
from  the  pen  of  John  Green,  who  had  been  previously  compli 
mented  by  Godfrey  in  a  poem  entitled  "A  Night  Piece."  The 
whole  spirit  of  the  publication  was  one  of  friendly  devotion  and  of 
firm  belief  in  the  permanency  of  Godfrey's  position  in  the  literary 
world.  As  was  the  custom  of  the  time,  the  Edition  was  issued 
under  the  patronage  of  subscribers,  a  list  being  included.  We 
know,  for  example,  that  Benjamin  Franklin  subscribed  for  twelve 
copies,  his  own  private,  autographed  copy  having  been  put  on 
sale  a  few  years  ago. 

As  yet,  no  concerted  effort  had  been  made  for  the  production  of 
Godfrey's  "The  Prince  of  Parthia."  We  do  not  know  if,  during 
this  time,  the  American  Company  had  any  claim  on  the  manu 
script,  or  whether,  after  Godfrey's  death,  it  was  again  submitted 
to  the  theatrical  people.  But  this  much  we  do  know,  that,  very 
hastily,  the  American  Company,  headed  by  David  Douglass,  who 
was  playing  at  the  Southwark  Theatre  in  Philadelphia,  decided 
that  they  would  put  on  "The  Prince  of  Parthia"  in  place  of  "The 
Disappointment;  or,  the  Force  of  Credulity,"  a  comic  opera  which 
will  be  noted  in  my  introduction  to  John  Leacock's  "The  Fall  of 
British  Tyranny."  This  musical  piece  had  actually  been  put  into 
rehearsal  in  1767,  when  it  was  withdrawn.  Immediately,  the 
Pennsylvania  Journal  and  Weekly  Advertiser  for  April  23,  1767, 
contained  an  advertisement  of  the  forthcoming  production;  it 
ran  as  follows : 

By  Authority. /Never  Performed  before. /By  the  American  Com- 
pany,/at  the  New  Theatre,  in  Southwark,/On  Friday,  the  Twenty- 
fourth  of  April,  will  be/presented,  A  Tragedy  written  by  the  late 
ingenious/Mr.  Thomas  Godfrey,  of  this  city,  called  the/Prince  of 
Parthia. /The  Principal  Characters  by  Mr.  Hallam,/Mr.  Douglass, 
Mr.  Wall,  Mr.  Morris,/Mr.  Allyn,  Mr.  Tomlinson,  Mr.  Broad/belt, 
Mr.  Greville,  Mrs.  Douglass,/Mrs.  Morris,  Miss  Wainwight,  and/ 
Miss  Cheer./To  which  will  be  added,  A  Ballad  Opera  called/The 
Contrivances. /To  begin  exactly  at  Seven  o'clock. —  Vivant  Rex  & 
Regina./  \ 

1  Juvenile  Poems/on/Various  Subjects./With  the/Prince  of  Part hia,/A/Tragedy,/ 
By  the  Late/Mr.  Thomas  Godfrey.  Junr./of  Philadelphia./To  which  is  prefixed./ 
Some  Account  of  the  Author  and  his  Writings./Poeta  nascitur  non  fit.  Hor./Phila- 
delphia./Printed  by  Henry  Miller,  in  Second-Street. /M  DCC  LXV. 


24  Representative  Plays 

In  the  Pennsylvania  Gazette,  for  the  same  date,  appears  an  ad 
vertisement,  without  the  cast  of  characters. 

The  production  occurred  on  April  24,  1767. 

Seilhamer  gives  a  probable  cast  of  characters,  although  only  the 
list  of  actors  is  given  in  the  advertisement.  Apart  from  this,  little 
is  known  of  the  production :  whether  or  not  it  pleased  the  theatre 
goers  of  the  time.  We  can  judge,  however,  from  the  reading  of  the 
play  itself,  that  there  was  little  of  extreme  dramatic  excellence  in 
the  situations,  the  chief  claim,  from  the  actor's  point  of  view, 
being  the  opportunity  to  deliver  certain  very  highly  coloured,  poet 
ical  lines  modelled  after  the  manner  of  the  Elizabethan  drama. 

In  the  publication  of  "The  Prince  of  Parthia,"  we  have  the 
first  printed  American  tragedy  in  existence,  and  in  its  production 
we  have  one  of  only  two  plays,  written  by  Americans,  and  pre 
sented  on  the  stage  before  the  Revolution.  The  other  play  is 
George  Cockings's  "The  Conquest  of  Canada;  or,  The  Siege  of 
Quebec,"  printed  for  the  author  in  1766,  and  presented  in  Phila 
delphia  in  1773.  We  note,  in  Dr.  F.  W.  Atkinson's  estimable 
Bibliography  of  American  Plays  in  his  possession,  that  Cockings 
later  described  himself  as  "Camillo  Querno,  Poet  Laureate  to 
Congress." 

The  interest  in  the  early  history  of  the  American  drama,  which 
has  become  evident  within  recent  years,  and  nowhere  more  evi 
dent  than  among  the  student  body  in  our  American  colleges,  in 
duced  the  Zelosophic  Literary  Society,  encouraged  by  the  Uni 
versity  of  Pennsylvania,  to  revive  "The  Prince  of  Parthia,  "which 
was  written  by  one  of  their  alumni.  The  production  was  con 
summated  on  March  26,  1915.  Even  though  we  have  no  state 
ment  as  to  the  actual  manner  in  which  the  Douglass  Company 
presented  the  play  originally,  we  are  given  every  evidence,  by 
those  who  witnessed  the  revival,  that  the  play,  while  containing 
many  excellences,  was  not  of  a  dramatic  character  according  to 
modern  ideas  of  stage  effectiveness. 

The  only  portrait  of  Godfrey  known  to  have  been  in  existence 
was  that  painted  by  Benjamin  West,  in  his  earlier  years.  It  is  in 
teresting  to  note  that  in  commemoration  of  the  one  hundred  and 
fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  original  production  of  this  play,  Dr. 
Archibald  Henderson,  of  the  University  of  North  Carolina,  issued 
an  edition  de  luxe  of  "The  Prince  of  Parthia,"  with  an  extended 
'  introduction,  historical,  biographical  and  critical  (Boston:  Little, 
'-•.  Brown  &  Co.,  1917). 


JUVENILE  POEMS 

o  w 
VARIOUS    SUBJECTS. 

WITH    THE 

PRINCE  OF  PARTHIA, 


TRAGEDY. 

BY    THE     LATE 

Ml    THOMAS    GODFREY,    Jun! 

of    PHILADELPHIA. 
To  which  n  prefixed, 

Some  ACCOUNT  of  the  AUTHOR  and  his  WRITINGS. 


Pitta  nafcitur  non  fit. 


HOK. 


PHILADELPHIA, 

Printed   by  HENRY    MILLER,    in  Second-Street. 

M  DCC  LXV. 


FAC-SIMILE  OF  ORIGINAL  TITLE-PAGE  TO  FIRST  EDITION 


ADVERTISEMENT 

Our  Author  has  made  Use  of  the  licentia  poetica  in  the  Man 
agement  of  this  Dramatic  Piece;  and  deviates,  in  a  particular 
or  two,  from  what  is  agreed  on  by  Historians:  The  Queen  Ther- 
musa  being  not  the  Wife  of  King  Artabanus,  but  (according  to 
Tacitus,  Strabo  and  Josephus)  of  Phraates;  Artabanus  being  the 
fourth  King  of  Parthia  after  him.  Such  Lapses  are  not  unpre 
cedented  among  the  Poets;  and  will  the  more  readily  admit  of  an 
Excuse,  when  the  Voice  of  History  is  followed  in  the  Description 
of  Characters. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


MEN. 
ARTABANUS,  King  of  Parthia. 

ARSACES, 


VARDANES, 


his  Sons. 


GOTARZES, 

BARZAPHERNES,  Lieutenant-Generales,  under  Arsac. 
LYSIAS, 


officers  at  Court. 
PHRAATES, 

BETHAS,  a  Noble  Captive. 

WOMEN. 

THERMUSA,  the  Queen. 
EVANTHE,  belov'd  by  Arsaces. 
CLEONE,  her  Confident. 
EDESSA,  Attendant  on  the  Queen. 

Guards  and  Attendants. 
SCENE,  Ctesiphon. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  PARTHIA 
A  TRAGEDY 

ACT  I. 
SCENE  I.  The  Temple  of  the  Sun. 

GOTARZES  and  PHRAATES. 

GOTARZES. 

He  comes,  Arsaces  comes,  my  gallant  Brother 
(Like  shining  Mars  in  all  the  pomp  of  conquest) 
Triumphant  enters  now  our  joyful  gates; 
Bright  Victory  waits  on  his  glitt'ring  car, 
And  shews  her  fav'rite  to  the  wond'ring  croud; 
While  Fame  exulting  sounds  the  happy  name 
To  realms  remote,  and  bids  the  world  admire. 
Oh!  'tis  a  glorious  day: — let  none  presume 
T'indulge  the  tear,  or  wear  the  gloom  of  sorrow; 
This  day  shall  shine  in  Ages  yet  to  come, 
And  grace  the  Parthian  story. 

PHRAATES. 

Glad  Ctes'phon 

Pours  forth  her  numbers,  like  a  rolling  deluge, 
To  meet  the  blooming  Hero;  all  the  ways, 
On  either  side,  as  far  as  sight  can  stretch, 
Are  lin'd  with  crouds,  and  on  the  lofty  walls 
Innumerable  multitudes  are  rang'd. 
On  ev'ry  countenance  impatience  sate 
With  roving  eye,  before  the  train  appear'd. 
But  when  they  saw  the  Darling  of  the  Fates, 
They  rent  the  air  with  loud  repeated  shouts; 
The  Mother  shew'd  him  to  her  infant  Son, 
And  taught  his  lisping  tongue  to  name  Arsaces: 
E'en  aged  Sires,  whose  sounds  are  scarcely  heard, 
By  feeble  strength  supported,  tost  their  caps, 
And  gave  their  murmur  to  the  gen'ral  voice. 


30  Representative  Plays 

GOTARZES. 

The  spacious  streets,  which  lead  up  to  the  Temple, 
Are  strew'd  with  flow'rs;  each,  with  frantic  joy, 
His  garland  forms,  and  throws  it  in  the  way. 
What  pleasure,  Phraates,  must  swell  his  bosom, 
To  see  the  prostrate  nation  all  around  him, 
And  know  he's  made  them  happy!    to  hear  them 
Tease  the  Gods,  to  show'r  their  blessings  on  him  ! 
Happy  Arsaces!  fain  I'd  imitate 
Thy  matchless  worth,  and  be  a  shining  joy! 

PHRAATES. 

Hark!  what  a  shout  was  that  which  pierc'd  the  skies! 
It  seem'd  as  tho'  all  Nature's  beings  join'd, 
To  hail  thy  glorious  Brother. 

GOTARZES. 

Happy  Parthia! 

Now  proud  Arabia  dreads  her  destin'd  chains, 
While  shame  and  rout  disperses  all  her  sons. 
Barzaphernes  pursues  the  fugitives, 
The  few  whom  fav'ring  Night  redeem'd  from  slaughter; 
Swiftly  they  fled,  for  fear  had  wing'd  their  speed, 
And  made  them  bless  the  shade  which  saf'ty  gave. 

PHRAATES. 

What  a  bright  hope  is  ours,  when  those  dread  pow'rs 
Who  rule  yon  heav'n,  and  guide  the  mov'ments  here, 


Shall  call  your  royal  Father  to  their  joys: 
In  blest  Arsaces  ev'ry  virtue  meets; 
He's  gen'rous,  brave,  and  wise,  and  good, 
Has  skill  to  act,  and  noble  fortitude 
To  face  bold  danger,  in  the  battle  firm, 
And  dauntless  as  a  Lion  fronts  his  foe. 
Yet  is  he  sway'd  by  ev'ry  tender  passion, 
Forgiving  mercy,  gentleness  and  love; 
Which  speak  the  Hero  friend  of  humankind. 

GOTARZES. 

And  let  me  speak,  for  'tis  to  him  I  owe 
That  here  I  stand,  and  breath  the  common  air, 
And  'tis  my  pride  to  tell  it  to  the  world. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia 


One  luckless  day  as  in  the  eager  chace 
My  Courser  wildly  bore  me  from  the  rest, 
A  monst'rous  Leopard  from  a  bosky  fen 
Rush'd  forth,  and  foaming  lash'd  the  ground, 
And  fiercely  ey'd  me  as  his  destin'd  quarry. 
My  jav'lin  swift  I  threw,  but  o'er  his  head 
It  erring  pass'd,  and  harmless  in  the  air 
Spent  all  its  force;   my  falchin  then  I  seiz'd, 
Advancing  to  attack  my  ireful  foe, 
When  furiously  the  savage  sprung  upon  me, 
And  tore  me  to  the  ground;  my  treach'rous  blade 
Above  my  hand  snap'd  short,  and  left  me  quite 
Defenceless  to  his  rage;  Arsaces  then, 
Hearing  the  din,  flew  like  some  pitying  pow'r, 
And  quickly  freed  me  from  the  Monster's  paws, 
Drenching  his  bright  lance  in  his  spotted  breast. 

PHRAATES. 

How  diff'rent  he  from  arrogant  Vardanes? 
That  haughty  Prince  eyes  with  a  stern  contempt 
All  other  Mortals,  and  with  lofty  mien 
He  treads  the  earth  as  tho'  he  were  a  God. 
Nay,  I  believe  that  his  ambitious  soul, 
Had  it  but  pow'r  to  its  licentious  wishes, 
Would  dare  dispute  with  Jove  the  rule  of  heav'n; 
Like  a  Titanian  son  with  giant  insolence, 
Match  with  the  Gods,  and  wage  immortal  war, 
'Til  their  red  wrath  should  hurl  him  headlong  down, 
E'en  to  destruction's  lowest  pit  of  horror. 

GOTARZES. 

Methinks  he  wears  not  that  becoming  joy 
Which  on  this  bright  occasion  gilds  the  court; 
His  brow's  contracted  with  a  gloomy  frown, 
Pensive  he  stalks  along,  and  seems  a  prey 
To  pining  discontent. 

PHRAATES. 

Arsaces  he  dislikes, 

For  standing  'twixt  him,  and  the  hope  of  Empire; 
While  Envy,  like  a  rav'nous  Vulture,  tears 
His  canker'd  heart,  to  see  your  Brother's  triumph. 


32  Representative  Plays 

GOTARZES. 

And  yet  Vardanes  owes  that  hated  Brother 

As  much  as  I ;   'twas  summer  last,  as  we 

Were  bathing  in  Euphrates'  flood,  Vardanes 

Proud  of  strength  would  seek  the  further  shore; 

But  ere  he  the  mid-stream  gain'd,  a  poignant  pain 

Shot  thro'  his  well-strung  nerves,  contracting  all, 

And  the  stiff  joints  refus'd  their  wonted  aid. 

Loudly  he  cry'd  for  help,  Arsaces  heard, 

And  thro'  the  swelling  waves  he  rush'd  to  save 

His  drowning  Brother,  and  gave  him  life, 

And  for  the  boon  the  Ingrate  pays  him  hate. 

PHRAATES. 

There's  something  in  the  wind,  for  I've  observ'd 
Of  late  he  much  frequents  the  Queen's  apartment, 
And  fain  would  court  her  favour,  wild  is  she 
To  gain  revenge  for  fell  Vonones'  death, 
And  firm  resolves  the  ruin  of  Arsaces. 
Because  that  fill'd  with  filial  piety, 
To  save  his  Royal  Sire,  he  struck  the  bold 
Presumptuous  Traitor  dead ;  nor  heeds  she 
The  hand  which  gave  her  Liberty,  nay  rais'd  her 
Again  to  Royalty. 

GOTARZES. 

Ingratitude, 

Thou  hell-born  fiend,  how  horrid  is  thy  form! 
The  Gods  sure  let  thee  loose  to  scourge  mankind, 
And  save  them  from  an  endless  waste  of  thunder. 

PHRAATES. 

Yet  I've  beheld  this  now  so  haughty  Queen, 
Bent  with  distress,  and  e'en  by  pride  forsook, 
When  following  thy  Sire's  triumphant  car, 
Her  tears  and  ravings  mov'd  the  senseless  herd, 
And  pity  blest  their  more  than  savage  breasts, 
With  the  short  pleasure  of  a  moment's  softness. 
Thy  Father,  conquer'd  by  her  charms  (for  what 
Can  charm  like  mourning  beauty),  soon  struck  off 
Her  chains,  and  rais'd  her  to  his  bed  and  throne. 
Adorn'd  the  brows  of  her  aspiring  Son, 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  33 

The  fierce  Vonones,  with  the  regal  crown 
Of  rich  Armenia,  once  the  happy  rule 
Of  Tisaphernes,  her  deceased  Lord. 

GOTARZES. 

And  he  in  wasteful  war  return'd  his  thanks, 
Refus'd  the  homage  he  had  sworn  to  pay, 
And  spread  Destruction  ev'ry  where  around, 
Til  from  Arsaces'  hand  he  met  the  fate 
His  crimes  deserv'd. 

PHRAATES. 

As  yet  your  princely  Brother 
Has  scap'd  Thermusa's  rage,  for  still  residing 
In  peaceful  times,  within  his  Province,  ne'er 
Has  fortune  blest  her  with  a  sight  of  him, 
On  whom  she'd  wreck  her  vengeance. 

GOTARZES. 

She  has  won 

By  spells,  I  think,  so  much  on  my  fond  father, 
That  he  is  guided  by  her  will  alone. 
She  rules  the  realm,  her  pleasure  is  a  law, 
All  offices  and  favours  are  bestow'd, 
As  she  directs. 

PHRAATES. 

But  see,  the  Prince,  Vardanes, 
Proud  Lysias  with  him,  he  whose  soul  is  harsh 
With  jarring  discord.    Nought  but  madding  rage, 
And  ruffian-like  revenge  his  breast  can  know, 
Indeed  to  gain  a  point  he'll  condescend 
To  mask  the  native  rancour  of  his  heart, 
And  smooth  his  venom'd  tongue  with  flattery. 
Assiduous  now  he  courts  Vardanes'  friendship, 
See,  how  he  seems  to  answer  all  his  gloom, 
And  give  him  frown  for  frown. 

GOTARZES. 

Let  us  retire, 

And  shun  them  now;   I  know  not  what  it  means, 
But  chilling  horror  shivers  o'er  my  limbs, 
When  Lysias  I  behold. — 


X 


34  Representative  Plays 

SCENE  II.  VARDANES  and  LYSIAS. 

LYSIAS. 

That  shout  proclaims  [Shout. 

Arsaces'  near  approach. 

VARDANES. 

Peace,  prithee,  peace, 

Wilt  thou  still  shock  me  with  that  hated  sound, 
And  grate  harsh  discord  in  my  offended  ear? 
If  thou  art  fond  of  echoing  the  name, 
Join  with  the  servile  croud,  and  hail  his  triumph. 

LYSIAS. 

I  hail  him?    By  our  glorious  shining  God, 
I'd  sooner  lose  my  speech,  and  all  my  days 
In  silence  rest,  conversing  with  my  thoughts, 
Than  hail  Arsaces. 

VARDANES. 

Yet,  again  his  name, 

Sure  there  is  magic  in  it,  Parthia's  drunk 
And  giddy  with  the  joy;  the  houses'  tops 
With  gaping  spectators  are  throng'd,  nay  wild 
They  climb  such  precipices  that  the  eye 
Is  dazzl'd  with  their  daring;  ev'ry  wretch 
Who  long  has  been  immur'd,  nor  dar'd  enjoy 
The  common  benefits  of  sun  and  air, 
Creeps  from  his  lurking  place;  e'en  feeble  age, 
Long  to  the  sickly  couch  confin'd,  stalks  forth, 
And  with  infectious  breath  assails  the  Gods. 
O !  curse  the  name,  the  idol  of  their  joy. 

LYSIAS. 

And  what's  that  name,  that  thus  they  should  disturb 
The  ambient  air,  and  weary  gracious  heav'n 
With  ceaseless  bellowings?    Vardanes  sounds 
With  equal  harmony,  and  suits  as  well 
The  loud  repeated  shouts  of  noisy  joy. 
Can  he  bid  Chaos  Nature's  rule  dissolve, 
Can  he  deprive  mankind  of  light  and  day, 
And  turn  the  Seasons  from  their  destin'd  course? 
Say,  can  he  do  all  this,  and  be  a  God? 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  35 

If  not,  what  is  his  matchless  merit?    What  dares  he, 

Vardanes  dares  not?  blush  not,  noble  Prince, 

For  praise  is  merit's  due,  and  I  will  give  it; 

E'en  'mid  the  croud  which  waits  thy  Brother's  smile, 

I'd  loud  proclaim  the  merit  of  Vardanes. 

VARDANES. 

Forbear  this  warmth,  your  friendship  urges  far. 

Yet  know  your  love  shall  e'er  retain  a  place 

In  my  remembrance.    There  is  something  here — 

[Pointing  to  his  breast. 
Another  time  and  I  will  give  thee  all ; 
But  now,  no  more. — 

LYSIAS. 

You  may  command  my  services, 
I'm  happy  to  obey.    Of  late  your  Brother 
Delights  in  hind'ring  my  advancement, 
And  ev'ry  boaster's  rais'd  above  my  merit, 
Barzaphernes  alone  commands  his  ear, 
His  oracle  in  all. 

VARDANES. 

I  hate  Arsaces, 

Tho'  he's  my  Mother's  son,  and  churchmen  say 
There's  something  sacred  in  the  name  of  Brother.  d\ 

My  soul  endures  him  not,  and  he's  the  bane 
Of  all  my  hopes  of  greatness.    Like  the  sun 
He  rules  the  day,  and  like  the  night's  pale  Queen, 
My  fainter  beams  are  lost  when  he  appears. 
And  this  because  he  came  into  the  world, 
A  moon  or  two  before  me :  What's  the  diff'rence, 
That  he  alone  should  shine  in  Empire's  seat? 
I  am  not  apt  to  trumpet  forth  my  praise, 
Or  highly  name  myself,  but  this  I'll  speak, 
To  him  in  ought,  I'm  not  the  least  inferior. 
Ambition,  glorious  fever!  mark  of  Kings, 
Gave  me  immortal  thirst  and  rule  of  Empire. 
Why  lag'd  my  tardy  soul,  why  droop'd  the  wing, 
Nor  forward  springing,  shot  before  his  speed 
To  seize  the  prize? — Twas  Empire — Oh!  'twas  Empire — 


36  Representative  Plays 

LYSIAS. 

Yet,  I  must  think  that  of  superior  mould 
Your  soul  was  form'd,  fit  for  a  heav'nly  state, 
And  left  reluctant  its  sublime  abode, 
And  painfully  obey'd  the  dread  command, 
When  Jove's  controuling  fate  forc'd  it  below. 
His  soul  was  earthly,  and  it  downward  mov'd, 
Swift  as  to  the  center  of  attraction. 

VARDANES. 

It  might  be  so — But  I've  another  cause 

To  hate  this  Brother,  ev'ry  way  my  rival; 

In  love  as  well  as  glory  he's  above  me; 

I  dote  on  fair  Evanthe,  but  the  charmer 

Disdains  my  ardent  suit,  like  a  miser 

He  treasures  up  her  beauties  to  himself: 

Thus  is  he  form'd  to  give  me  torture  ever. — 

But  hark,  they've  reach'd  the  Temple, 

Didst  thou  observe  the  croud,  their  eagerness, 

Each  put  the  next  aside  to  catch  a  look, 

Himself  was  elbow'd  out? — Curse,  curse  their  zeal — 

LYSIAS. 
Stupid  folly! 

VARDANES. 

I'll  tell  thee,  Lysias, 
This  many-headed  monster  multitude, 
Unsteady  is  as  giddy  fortune's  wheel, 
As  woman  fickle,  varying  as  the  wind ; 
To-day  they  this  way  course,  the  next  they  veer, 
And  shift  another  point,  the  next  another. 

LYSIAS. 

Curiosity's  another  name  for  man, 

The  blazing  meteor  streaming  thro'  the  air 

Commands  our  wonder,  and  admiring  eyes, 

With  eager  gaze  we  trace  the  lucent  path, 

'Til  spent  at  length  it  shrinks  to  native  nothing. 

While  the  bright  stars  which  ever  steady  glow, 

Unheeded  shine,  and  bless  the  world  below. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  37 

SCENE  III.   QUEEN  and  EDESSA. 
QUEEN. 

Oh  !  give  me  way,  the  haughty  victor  comes, 
Surrounded  by  adoring  multitudes; 
On  swelling  tides  of  praise  to  heav'n  they  raise  him; 
To  deck  their  idol,  they  rob  the  glorious  beings 
Of  their  splendour. 

EDESSA. 

My  royal  Lady, 
Chace  hence  these  passions. 

QUEEN. 

Peace,  forever  peace, 
Have  I  not  cause  to  hate  this  homicide? 
Twas  by  his  cursed  hand  Vonones  fell, 
Yet  fell  not  as  became  his  gallant  spirit, 
Not  by  the  warlike  arm  of  chief  renown'd, 
But  by  a  youth,  ye  Gods,  a  beardless  stripling, 
Stab'd  by  his  dastard  falchin  from  behind; 
For  well  I  know  he  fear'd  to  meet  Vonones, 
As  princely  warriors  meet  with  open  daring, 
But  shrunk  amidst  his  guards,  and  gave  him  death, 
When  faint  with  wounds,  and  weary  with  the  fight. 

EDESSA. 

With  anguish  I  have  heard  his  hapless  fate, 
And  mourn'd  in  silence  for  the  gallant  Prince. 


< 
QUEEN. 


Soft  is  thy  nature,  but,  alas  !  Edessa, 

Thy  heart's  a  stranger  to  a  mother's  sorrows, 

To  see  the  pride  of  all  her  wishes  blasted  ; 

Thy  fancy  cannot  paint  the  storm  of  grief, 

Despair  and  anguish,  which  my  breast  has  known. 

Oh!  show'r,  ye  Gods,  your  torments  on  Arsaces, 

Curs'd  be  the  morn  which  dawn'd  upon  his  birth. 

EDESSA. 
Yet,  I  intreat  — 


38  Representative  Plays 

QUEEN. 

Away!  for  I  will  curse — 
Oh!  may  he  never  know  a  father's  fondness, 
Or  know  it  to  his  sorrow,  may  his  hopes 
Of  joy  be  cut  like  mine,  and  his  short  life 
Be  one  continu'd  tempest;  if  he  lives, 
Let  him  be  curs'd  with  jealousy  and  fear, 
And  vext  with  anguish  of  neglecting  scorn; 
May  tort'ring  hope  present  the  flowing  cup, 
Then  hasty  snatch  it  from  his  eager  thirst, 
And  when  he  dies  base  treach'ry  be  the  means. 

EDESSA. 
Oh !  calm  your  spirits. 

QUEEN. 

Yes,  I'll  now  be  calm, 

Calm  as  the  sea  when  the  rude  waves  are  laid, 
And  nothing  but  a  gentle  swell  remains; 
My  curse  is  heard,  and  I  shall  have  revenge; 
There's  something  here  which  tells  me  'twill  be  so, 
And  peace  resumes  her  empire  o'er  my  breast. 
Vardanes  is  the  Minister  of  Vengeance; 
Fir'd  by  ambition,  he  aspiring  seeks 
T'adorn  his  brows  with  Parthia's  diadem ; 
I've  fann'd  the  fire,  and  wrought  him  up  to  fury, 
Envy  shall  urge  him  forward  still  to  dare, 
And  discord  be  the  prelude  to  destruction, 
Then  this  detested  race  shall  feel  my  hate. 

EDESSA. 

And  doth  thy  hatred  then  extend  so  far, 
That  innocent  and  guilty  all  alike 
Must  feel  thy  dreadful  vengeance? 

QUEEN. 
Ah!Edessa, 

Thou  dost  not  know  e'en  half  my  mighty  wrongs, 
But  in  thy  bosom  I  will  pour  my  sorrows. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  39 

EDESSA. 

With  secrecy  I  ever  have  repaid 
Your  confidence. 

QUEEN. 

I  know  thou  hast;  then  hear: 

The  changeling  King  who  oft  has  kneel'd  before  me, 
And  own'd  no  other  pow'r,  now  treats  me 
With  ill  dissembl'd  love  mix'd  with  disdain. 
A  newer  beauty  rules  his  faithless  heart, 
Which  only  in  variety  is  blest; 
Oft  have  I  heard  him,  when  wrapt  up  in  sleep, 
And  wanton  fancy  rais'd  the  mimic  scene, 
Call  with  unusual  fondness  on  Evanthe, 
While  I  have  lain  neglected  by  his  side, 
Except  sometimes  in  a  mistaken  rapture 
He'd  clasp  me  to  his  bosom. 

EDESSA. 

Oh!  Madam, 

Let  not  corroding  jealousy  usurp 
Your  Royal  breast,  unnumber'd  ills  attend 
The  wretch  who  entertains  that  fatal  guest. 

QUEEN. 

Think  not  that  I'll  pursue  its  wand'ring  fires, 
No  more  I'll  know  perplexing  doubts  and  fears, 
And  erring  trace  suspicion's  endless  maze, 
For,  ah!  I  doubt  no  more. 

EDESSA. 
Their  shouts  approach. 

QUEEN. 

Lead  me,  Edessa,  to  some  peaceful  gloom, 
Some  silent  shade  far  from  the  walks  of  men, 
There  shall  the  hop'd  revenge  my  thoughts  employ, 
And  sooth  my  sorrows  with  the  coming  joy. 

SCENE  IV.   EVANTHE  and  CLEONE. 

EVANTHE. 

No,  I'll  not  meet  him  now,  for  love  delights 
In  the  soft  pleasures  of  the  secret  shade, 


4-O  Representative  Plays 

And  shuns  the  noise  and  tumult  of  the  croud. 

How  tedious  are  the  hours  which  bring  him 

To  my  fond,  panting  heart!  for  oh!  to  those 

Who  live  in  expectation  of  the  bliss, 

Time  slowly  creeps,  and  ev'ry  tardy  minute 

Seems  mocking  of  their  wishes.    Say,  Cleone, 

For  you  beheld  the  triumph,  'midst  his  pomp, 

Did  he  not  seem  to  curse  the  empty  show, 

The  pageant  greatness,  enemy  to  love, 

Which  held  him  from  Evan  the?  haste,  to  tell  me, 

And  feed  my  gready  ear  with  the  fond  tale — 

Yet,  hold — for  I  shall  weary  you  with  questions, 

And  ne'er  be  satisfied — Beware,  Cleone, 

And  guard  your  heart  from  Love's  delusive  sweets. 

CLEONE. 

Is  Love  an  ill,  that  thus  you  caution  me 
To  shun  his  pow'r? 

EVANTHE. 

The  Tyrant,  my  Cleone, 
Despotic  rules,  and  fetters  all  our  thoughts. 
Oh!  wouldst  thou  love,  then  bid  adieu  to  peace, 
Then  fears  will  come,  and  jealousies  intrude, 
Ravage  your  bosom,  and  disturb  your  quiet, 
E'en  pleasure  to  excess  will  be  a  pain. 
Once  I  was  free,  then  my  exulting  heart 
Was  like  a  bird  that  hops  from  spray  to  spray, 
And  all  was  innocence  and  mirth;  but,  lo! 
The  Fowler  came,  and  by  his  arts  decoy'd, 
/And  soon  the  Wanton  cag'd.    Twice  fifteen  times 
Has  Cynthia  dipt  her  horns  in  beams  of  light, 
Twice  fifteen  times  has  wasted  all  her  brightness, 
Since  first  I  knew  to  love;   'twas  on  that  day 
When  curs'd  Vonones  fell  upon  the  plain, 
The  lovely  Victor  doubly  conquer'd  me. 

CLEONE. 

Forgive  my  boldness,  Madam,  if  I  ask 

What  chance  first  gave  you  to  Vonones'  pow'r? 

Curiosity  thou  know'st  is  of  our  sex. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  41 

EVANTHE. 

That  is  a  task  will  wake  me  to  new  sorrows, 

Yet  thou  attend,  and  I  will  tell  thee  all. 

Arabia  gave  me  birth,  my  father  held 

Great  Offices  at  Court,  and  was  deputed 

Brave,  wise  and  loyal,  by  his  Prince  belov'd. 

Oft  has  he  led  his  conqu'ring  troops,  and  forc'd 

From  frowning  victory  her  awful  honours. 

In  infancy  I  was  his  only  treasure, 

On  me  he  wasted  all  his  store  of  fondness. 

Oh !  I  could  tell  thee  of  his  wond'rous  goodness, 

His  more  than  father's  love  and  tenderness. 

But  thou  wouldst  jeer,  and  say  the  tale  was  trifling; 

So  did  he  dote  upon  me,  for  in  childhood 

My  infant  charms,  and  artless  innocence 

Blest  his  fond  age,  and  won  on  ev'ry  heart. 

But,  oh!  from  this  sprung  ev'ry  future  ill, 

This  fatal  beauty  was  the  source  of  all. 

CLEONE. 

'Tis  often  so,  for  beauty  is  a  flow'r 
That  tempts  the  hand  to  pluck  it. 

EVANTHE. 

Full  three  times 

Has  scorching  summer  fled  from  cold  winter's 
Ruthless  blasts,  as  oft  again  has  spring 
In  sprightly  youth  drest  nature  in  her  beauties, 
Since  bathing  in  Niphates'  1  silver  stream, 
Attended  only  by  one  fav'rite  maid ; 
As  we  were  sporting  on  the  wanton  waves, 
Swift  from  the  wood  a  troop  of  horsemen  rush'd, 
Rudely  they  seiz'd,  and  bore  me  trembling  off, 
In  vain  Edessa  with  her  shrieks  assail'd 
The  heav'ns,  for  heav'n  was  deaf  to  both  our  pray'rs. 
The  wretch  whose  insolent  embrace  confin'd  me 
(Like  thunder  bursting  on  the  guilty  soul), 
With  curs'd  Vonones'  voice  pour'd  in  my  ears 
A  hateful  tale  of  love;  for  he  it  seems 
Had  seen  me  at  Arabia's  royal  court, 
And  took  those  means  to  force  me  to  his  arms. 

1  The  Tigris. 


42  Representative  Plays 

CLEONE. 

Perhaps  you  may  gain  something  from  the  Captives 
Of  your  lost  Parents. 

EVANTHE. 

This  I  meant  to  try, 

Soon  as  the  night  hides  Nature  in  her  darkness, 
Veil'd  in  the  gloom  we'll  steal  into  their  prison. 
But,  oh!  perhaps  e'en  now  my  aged  Sire 
May  'mongst  the  slain  lie  welt'ring  on  the  field, 
Pierc'd  like  a  riddle  through  with  num'rous  wounds, 
While  parting  life  is  quiv'ring  on  his  lips, 
He  may  perhaps  be  calling  on  his  Evanthe. 
Yes,  ye  great  Pow'rs  who  boast  the  name  of  mercy, 
Ye  have  deny'd  me  to  his  latest  moments, 
To  all  the  offices  of  filial  duty, 
To  bind  his  wounds,  and  wash  them  with  my  tears, 
Is  this,  is  this  your  mercy? 

CLEONE. 

Blame  not  heav'n, 

For  heav'n  is  just  and  kind;  dear  Lady,  drive 
These  black  ideas  from  your  gentle  breast; 
Fancy  delights  to  torture  the  distress'd, 
And  fill  the  gloomy  scene  with  shadowy  ills, 
Summon  your  reason,  and  you'll  soon  have  comfort. 

EVANTHE. 

Dost  thou  name  comfort  to  me,  my  Cleone, 

Thou  who  know'st  all  my  sorrows?   plead  no  more, 

Tis  reason  tells  me  I  am  doubly  wretched. 

CLEONE. 

But  hark,  the  music  strikes,  the  rites  begin, 
And,  see,  the  doors  are  op'ning. 

EVANTHE. 

Let's  retire; 

My  heart  is  now  too  full  to  meet  him  here, 
Fly  swift  ye  hours,  till  in  his  arms  I'm  prest, 
And  each  intruding  care  is  hush'd  to  rest. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  43 

SCENE  V. 

The  Scene  draws  and  discovers,  in  the  inner  part  of  the  Temple,  a 
large  image  of  the  Sun,  with  an  altar  before  it.  Around  Priests 
and  Attendants. 

KING,    ARSACES,    VARDANES,    GOTARZES,    PHRAATES,    LYSIAS, 
with  BETHAS  in  chains. 

HYMN. 

Parent  of  Light,  to  thee  belong 
Our  grateful  tributary  songs; 
Each  thankful  voice  to  thee  shall  rise, 
And  chearful  pierce  the  azure  skies; 
While  in  thy  praise  all  earth  combines, 
And  Echo  in  the  Chorus  joins. 

All  the  gay  pride  of  blooming  May, 

The  Lily  fair  and  blushing  Rose, 
To  thee  their  early  honours  pay, 

And  all  their  heav'nly  sweets  disclose. 
The  feather'd  Choir  on  ev'ry  tree 

To  hail  thy  glorious  dawn  repair, 
While  the  sweet  sons  of  harmony 

With  Hallelujahs  fill  the  air., 

Tis  thou  hast  brac'd  the  Hero's  arm, 
And  giv'n  the  Love  of  praise  to  warm 
His  bosom,  as  he  onward  flies, 
And  for  his  Country  bravely  dies.  ^ 
Thine's  victory,  and  from  thee  springs 
Ambition's  fire,  which  glows  in  Kings. 

KING  [coming  forward]. 
Thus,  to  the  Gods  our  tributary  songs, 
And  now,  oh !  let  me  welcome  once  again 
My  blooming  victor  to  his  Father's  arms; 
And  let  me  thank  thee  for  our  safety:  Parthia  ^ 
Shall  thank  thee  too,  and  give  her  grateful  praise 
To  her  Deliverer. 

OMNES. 
All  hail!  Arsaces! 


44  Representative  Plays 

KING. 
Thanks  to  my  loyal  friends. 

VARDANES  [aside]. 

Curse,  curse  the  sound, 
E'en  Echo  gives  it  back  with  int'rest, 
The  joyful  gales  swell  with  the  pleasing  theme, 
And  waft  it  far  away  to  distant  hills. 
O  that  my  breath  was  poison,  then  indeed 
I'd  hail  him  like  the  rest,  but  blast  him  too. 

ARSACES. 

My  Royal  Sire,  these  honours  are  unmerited, 
Beneath  your  prosp'rous  auspices  I  fought, 
Bright  vict'ry  to  your  banners  joyful  flew, 
And  favour'd  for  the  Sire  the  happy  son. 
But  lenity  should  grace  the  victor's  laurels, 
Then,  here,  my  gracious  Father — 

KING. 

Hal'tisBethas! 

Know'st  thou,  vain  wretch,  what  fate  attends  on  those 
Who  dare  oppose  the  pow'r  of  mighty  Kings, 
Whom  heav'n  delights  to  favour?  sure  some  God 
Who  sought  to  punish  you  for  impious  deeds, 
'Twas  urg'd  you  forward  to  insult  our  arms, 
And  brave  us  at  our  Royal  City's  gates. 

BETHAS. 

At  honour's  call,  and  at  my  King's  command, 
Tho'  it  were  even  with  my  single  arm,  again 
I'd  brave  the  multitude,  which,  like  a  deluge, 
O'erwhelm'd  my  gallant  handful;  yea,  wou'd  meet 
Undaunted,  all  the  fury  of  the  torrent. 
'Tis  honour  is  the  guide  of  all  my  actions, 
The  ruling  star  by  which  I  steer  thro'  life, 
And  shun  the  shelves  of  infamy  and  vice. 

KING. 

It  was  the  thirst  of  gain  which  drew  you  on; 
'Tis  thus  that  Av'rice  always  cloaks  its  views, 
Th'  ambition  of  your  Prince  you  gladly  snatch'd 
As  opportunity  to  fill  your  coffers. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  45 

It  was  the  plunder  of  our  palaces, 

And  of  our  wealthy  cities,  fill'd  your  dreams, 

And  urg'd  you  on  your  way;  but  you  have  met 

The  due  reward  of  your  audacity. 

Now  shake  your  chains,  shake  and  delight  your  ears 

With  the  soft  music  of  your  golden  fetters. 

BETHAS. 

True,  I  am  fall'n,  but  glorious  was  my  fall, 
The  day  was  brav'ly  fought,  we  did  our  best, 
But  victory's  of  heav'n.    Look  o'er  yon  field,  .,> 

See  if  thou  findest  one  Arabian  back 
Disfigur'd  with  dishonourable  wounds. 
No,  here,  deep  on  their  bosoms,  are  engrav'd 
The  marks  of  honour!  'twas  thro'  here  their  souls 
Flew  to  their  blissful  seats.    Oh !  why  did  I 
Survive  the  fatal  day?    To  be  this  slave, 
To  be  the  gaze  and  sport  of  vulgar  crouds, 
Thus,  like  a  shackl'd  tyger,  stalk  my  round, 
And  grimly  low'r  upon  the  shouting  herd. 
Ye  Gods!— 

KING. 

Away  with  him  to  instant  death 

ARSACES. 

Hear  me,  my  Lord,  O,  not  on  this  bright  day, 
Let  not  this  day  of  joy  blush  with  his  blood. 
Nor  count  his  steady  loyalty  a  crime, 
But  give  him  life,  Arsaces  humbly  asks  it, 
And  may  you  e'er  be  serv'd  with  honest  hearts. 

KING. 

Well,  be  it  so;  hence,  bear  him  to  his  dungeon; 
Lysias,  we  here  commit  him  to  thy  charge. 

BETHAS. 

Welcome  my  dungeon,  but  more  welcome  death. 
Trust  not  too  much,  vain  Monarch,  to  your  pow'r,       ; 
Know  fortune  places  all  her  choicest  gifts 
On  ticklish  heights,  they  shake  with  ev'ry  breeze, 
And  oft  some  rude  wind  hurls  them  to  the  ground. 
Jove's  thunder  strikes  the  lofty  palaces, 


46  Representative  Plays 

While  the  low  cottage,  in  humility, 
Securely  stands,  and  sees  the  mighty  ruin. 
What  King  can  boast,  to-morrow  as  to-day, 
Thus,  happy  will  I  reign?    The  rising  sun 
May  view  him  seated  on  a  splendid  throne, 
And,  setting,  see  him  shake  the  servile  chain. 

[Exit  guarded. 

SCENE  VI. 
KING,  ARSACES,  VARDANES,  GOTARZES,  PHRAATES. 

GOTARZES. 

Thus  let  me  hail  thee  from  the  croud  distinct, 
For  in  the  exulting  voice  of  gen'ral  joy 
My  fainter  sounds  were  lost,  believe  me,  Brother, 
My  soul  dilates  with  joy  to  see  thee  thus. 

ARSACES. 
Thus  let  me  thank  thee  in  this  fond  embrace. 

VARDANES. 

The  next  will  be  my  turn,  Gods,  I  had  rather 
Be  circl'd  in  a  venom'd  serpent's  fold. 

GOTARZES. 

O,  my  lov'd  Brother,  'tis  my  humble  boon, 
That,  when  the  war  next  calls  you  to  the  field, 
I  may  attend  you  in  the  rage  of  battle. 
By  imitating  thy  heroic  deeds, 
Perhaps,  I  may  rise  to  some  little  worth, 
Beneath  thy  care  I'll  try  my  feeble  wings, 
Till  taught  by  thee  to  soar  to  nobler  heights. 

KING. 

Why,  that's  my  boy,  thy  spirit  speaks  thy  birth, 
No  more  I'll  turn  thee  from  the  road  to  glory, 
To  rust  in  slothfulness,  with  lazy  Gownsmen. 

GOTARZES. 
Thanks,  to  my  Sire,  I'm  now  completely  blest. 

ARSACES. 
But,  I've  another  Brother,  where's  Vardanes? 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  47 

KING. 

Ha!  what,  methinks,  he  lurks  behind  the  croud,  S 

And  wears  a  gloom  which  suits  not  with  the  time. 

VARDANES. 

Doubt  not  my  Love,  tho'  I  lack  eloquence, 
To  dress  my  sentiments  and  catch  the  ear, 
Tho'  plain  my  manners,  and  my  language  rude, 
My  honest  heart  disdains  to  wear  disguise. 
Then  think  not  I  am  slothful  in  the  race, 
Or,  that  my  Brother  springs  before  my  Love. 

ARSACES. 
Far  be  suspicion  from  me. 

VARDANES. 

So,  'tis  done, 
Thanks  to  dissembling,  all  is  well  again. 

KING. 

Now  let  us  forward,  to  the  Temple  go, 
And  let,  with  chearful  wine,  the  goblets  flow; 
Let  blink-ey'd  Jollity  his  aid  afford, 
To  crown  our  triumph,  round  the  festive  board: 
But,  let  the  wretch,  whose  soul  can  know  a  care, 
Far  from  our  joys,  to  some  lone  shade  repair, 
In  secrecy,  there  let  him  e'er  remain, 
Brood  o'er  his  gloom,  and  still  increase  his  pain. 

End  of 'the  First  Act. 

ACT  II. 
SCENE  I.  A  Prison. 

LYSIAS  [alone], 

The  Sun  set  frowning,  and  refreshing  Eve 
Lost  all  its  sweets,  obscur'd  in  double  gloom. 
This  night  shall  sleep  be  stranger  to  these  eyes,  ^ 
Peace  dwells  not  here,  and  slumber  flies  the  shock; 
My  spirits,  like  the  elements,  are  warring, 
And  mock  the  tempest  with  a  kindred  rage — 
I,  who  can  joy  in  nothing,  but  revenge, 


48  Representative  Plays 

Know  not  those  boasted  ties  of  Love  and  Friendship; 
Vardanes  I  regard,  but  as  he  give  me 
Some  hopes  of  vengeance  on  the  Prince  Arsaces — 
But,  ha!  he  comes,  wak'd  by  the  angry  storm, 
'Tis  to  my  wish,  thus  would  I  form  designs, 
Horror  should  breed  beneath  the  veil  of  horror, 
And  darkness  aid  conspiracies — He's  here — 

SCENE  II.  VARDANES  and  LYSIAS. 

LYSIAS. 
Welcome,  my  noble  Prince. 

VARDANES. 

Thanks,  gentle  friend; 
Heav'ns!  what  a  night  is  this! 

LYSIAS. 

Tis  fill'd  with  terror; 

Some  dread  event  beneath  this  horror  lurks, 
Ordain'd  by  fate's  irrevocable  doom; 
Perhaps  Arsaces'  fall — and  angry  heav'n 
Speaks  it,  in  thunder,  to  the  trembling  world. 

VARDANES. 

Terror  indeed !  it  seems  as  sick'ning  Nature 
Had  giv'n  her  order  up  to  gen'ral  ruin; 
The  Heav'ns  appear  as  one  continu'd  flame, 
Earth  with  her  terror  shakes,  dim  night  retires, 
And  the  red  lightning  gives  a  dreadful  day, 
While  in  the  thunder's  voice  each  sound  is  lost; 
Fear  sinks  the  panting  heart  in  ev'ry  bosom, 
E'en  the  pale  dead,  affrighted  at  the  horror, 
As  tho'  unsafe,  start  from  their  marble  goals, 
And  howling  thro'  the  streets  are  seeking  shelter. 

LYSIAS. 

I  saw  a  flash  stream  thro'  the  angry  clouds, 
And  bend  its  course  to  where  a  stately  pine 
Behind  the  garden  stood,  quickly  it  seiz'd, 
And  wrapt  it  in  a  fiery  fold,  the  trunk 
Was  shiver'd  into  atoms,  and  the  branches 
Off  were  lopt,  and  wildly  scatter'd  round. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  49 

VARDANES. 

Why  rage  the  elements,  they  are  not  curs'd 
Like  me?    Evanthe  frowns  not  angry  on  them, 
The  wind  may  play  upon  her  beauteous  bosom 
Nor  fear  her  chiding,  light  can  bless  her  sense, 
And  in  the  floating  mirror  she  beholds 
Those  beauties  which  can  fetter  all  mankind. 
Earth  gives  her  joy,  she  plucks  the  fragrant  rose, 
Pleas'd  takes  its  sweets,  and  gazes  on  its  bloom. 

LYSIAS. 

My  Lord,  forget  her,  tear  her  from  your  breast. 
Who,  like  the  Phoenix  gazes  on  the  sun, 
And  strives  to  soar  up  to  the  glorious  blaze, 
Should  never  leave  Ambition's  brightest  object, 
To  turn,  and  view  the  beauties  of  a  flow'r. 

VARDANES. 

O,  Lysias,  chide  no  more,  for  I  have  done. 

Yes,  I'll  forget  this  proud  disdainful  beauty; 

Hence,  with  vain  love — Ambition,  now,  alone, 

Shall  guide  my  actions,  since  mankind  delights 

To  give  me  pain,  I'll  study  mischief  too, 

And  shake  the  earth,  e'en  like  this  raging  tempest. 

LYSIAS. 

A  night  like  this,  so  dreadful  to  behold, 
Since  my  remembrance's  birth,  I  never  saw. 

VARDANES. 

E'en  such  a  night,  dreadful  as  this,  they  say, 
My  teeming  Mother  gave  me  to  the  world. 
Whence  by  those  sages  who,  in  knowledge  rich, 
Can  pry  into  futurity,  and  tell 
What  distant  ages  will  produce  of  wonder, 
My  days  were  deem'd  to  be  a  hurricane; 
My  early  life  prov'd  their  prediction  false; 
Beneath  a  sky  serene  my  voyage  began, 
But,  to  this  long  uninterrupted  calm, 
Storms  shall  succeed. 


50  Representative  Plays 

LYSIAS. 

Then  haste,  to  raise  the  tempest; 
My  soul  disdains  this  one  eternal  round, 
Where  each  succeeding  day  is  like  the  former. 
Trust  me,  my  noble  Prince,  here  is  a  heart 
Steady  and  firm  to  all  your  purposes, 
And  here's  a  hand  that  knows  to  execute 
Whate'er  designs  thy  daring  breast  can  form, 
Nor  ever  shake  with  fear. 

VARDANES. 

And  I  will  use  it, 

Come  to  my  bosom,  let  me  place  thee  here, 
How  happy  am  I  clasping  so  much  virtue! 
Now,  by  the  light,  it  is  my  firm  belief, 
One  mighty  soul  in  common  swells  our  bosoms, 
Such  sameness  can't  be  match'd  in  diff'rent  beings. 

LYSIAS. 

Your  confidence,  my  Lord,  much  honours  me, 
And  when  I  act  unworthy  of  your  love 
May  I  be  hooted  from  Society, 
As  tho'  disgraceful  to  the  human  kind, 
And  driv'n  to  herd  among  the  savage  race. 

VARDANES. 

Believe  me,  Lysias,  I  do  not  know 
A  single  thought  which  tends  toward  suspicion, 
For  well  I  know  thy  worth,  when  I  affront  it, 
By  the  least  doubt,  may  I  be  ever  curs'd 
With  faithless  friends,  and  by  his  dagger  fall 
Whom  my  deluded  wishes  most  would  favour. 

LYSIAS. 

Then  let's  no  longer  trifle  time  away, 
I'm  all  impatience  till  I  see  thy  brows 
Bright  in  the  glories  of  a  diadem; 
My  soul  is  fill'd  with  anguish  when  I  think 
That  by  weak  Princes  worn,  'tis  thus  disgrac'd. 
Haste,  mount  the  throne,  and,  like  the  morning  Sun, 
Chace  with  your  piercing  beams  those  mists  away, 
Which  dim  the  glory  of  the  Parthian  state : 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  51 

Each  honest  heart  desires  it,  numbers  there  are 
Ready  to  join  you,  and  support  your  cause, 
Against  th'  opposing  faction. 

VARDANES. 

Sure  some  God, 

Bid  you  thus  call  me  to  my  dawning  honours, 
And  joyful  I  obey  the  pleasing  summons. 
Now  by  the  pow'rs  of  heav'n,  of  earth  and  hell, 
Most  solemnly  I  swear,  I  will  not  know 
That  quietude  which  I  was  wont  to  know, 
Til  I  have  climb'd  the  height  of  all  my  wishes, 
Or  fell,  from  glory,  to  the  silent  grave. 

LYSIAS. 

Nobly  resolv'd,  and  spoken  like  Vardanes, 
There  shone  my  Prince  in  his  superior  lustre. 

VARDANES. 

But,  then,  Arsaces,  he's  a  fatal  bar — 
O !  could  I  brush  this  busy  insect  from  me, 
Which  envious  strives  to  rob  me  of  my  bloom, 
Then  might  I,  like  somefragrant  op'ning  flow'r. 
Spread  all  my  beajitips  in  the  fare  of  Ha^ 
Ye  Gods!  why  did  ye  give  me  such  a  soul 
(A  soul,  which  ev'ry  way  is  form'd  for  Empire), 
And  damn  me  with  a  younger  Brother's  right? 
The  diadem  would  set  as  well  on  mine, 
As  on  the  brows  of  any  lordly  He ; 
Nor  is  this  hand  weak  to  enforce  command. 
And  shall  I  steal  into  my  grave,  and  give 
My  name  up  to  oblivion,  to  be  thrown 
Among  the  common  rubbish  of  the  times? 
No:   Perish  first,  this  happy  hated  Brother. 

LYSIAS. 

I  always  wear  a  dagger,  for  your  service, 
I  need  not  speak  the  rest — 
When  humbly  I  intreated  of  your  Brother 
T'  attend  him  as  Lieutenant  in  this  war, 
Frowning  contempt,  he  haughtily  reply'd, 
He  entertain'd  not  Traitors  in  his  service. 


52  Representative  Plays 

True,  I  betray'd  Orodes,  but  with  cause, 

He  struck  me,  like  a  sorry  abject  slave, 

And  still  withheld  from  giving  what  he'd  promis'd. 

Fear  not  Arsaces,  believe  me,  he  shall 

Soon  his  Quietus  have — But,  see,  he  comes, — 

What  can  this  mean?  Why  at  this  lonely  hour, 

And  unattended? — Ha!  'tis  opportune — 

I'll  in,  and  stab  him  now.    I  heed  not  what 

The  danger  is,  so  I  but  have  revenge, 

Then  heap  perdition  on  me. 


VARDANES. 


Hold,  awhile — 
'Twould  be  better  could  we  undermine  him, 
And  make  him  fall  by  Artabanus'  doom. 

LYSIAS. 
Well,  be  it  so— 

VARDANES. 

But  let  us  now  retire, 
We  must  not  be  observ'd  together  here. 


SCENE  III. 
ARSACES  [alone]. 

'Tis  here  that  hapless  Bethas  is  confin'd ; 
He  who,  but  yesterday,  like  angry  Jove, 
When  punishing  the  crimes  of  guilty  men, 
Spread  death  and  desolation  all  around, 
While  Parthia  trembl'd  at  his  name;  is  now 
Unfriended  and  forlorn,  and  counts  the  hours, 
Wrapt  in  the  gloomy  horrors  of  a  goal. — 

I  How  dark,  and  hidden,  are  the  turns  of  fate! 

I  His  rigid  fortune  moves  me  to  compassion. 

I  O!  'tis  a  heav'nly  virtue  when  the  heart 
Can  feel  the  sorrows  of  another's  bosom, 
It  dignifies  the  man:  The  stupid  wretch 
Who  knows  not  this  sensation,  is  an  image, 
And  wants  the  feeling  to  make  up  a  life — 
I'll  in,  and  give  my  aid  to  sooth  his  sorrows. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  53 

SCENE  IV. 
VARDANES  and  LYSIAS. 

LYSIAS. 

Let  us  observe  with  care,  something  we,  yet, 
May  gather,  to  give  to  us  the  vantage; 
No  matter  what's  the  intent. 

VARDANES. 

How  easy  'tis 

To  cheat  this  busy,  tattling,  censuring  world ! 
For  fame  still  names  our  actions,  good  or  bad, 
As  introduc'd  by  chance,  which  ofttimes  throws 
Wrong  lights  on  objects;  vice  she  dresses  up — 
In  the  bright  form,  and  goodliness,  of  virtue, 
While  virtue  languishes,  and  pines  neglected, 
Rob'd  of  her  lustre — But,  let's  forward,  Lysias — 
Thou  know'st  each  turn  in  this  thy  dreary  rule, 
Then  lead  me  to  some  secret  stand,  from  whence, 
Unnotic'd,  all  their  actions  we  may  view. 

LYSIAS. 
Here,  take  your  stand  behind — See,  Bethas  comes. 

[They  retire. 

SCENE  V. 

BETHAS  [alone]. 

To  think  on  Death  in  gloomy  solitude, 
In  dungeons  and  in  chains,  when  expectation 
Join'd  with  serious  thought  describe  him  to  us, 
His  height'n'd  terrors  strike  upon  the  soul 
With  awful  dread ;  imagination  rais'd 
To  frenzy,  plunges  in  a  sea  of  horror, 
And  tastes  the  pains,  the  agonies  of  dying — 
Ha!  who  is  this,  perhaps  he  bears  my  fate? 
It  must  be  so,  but,  why  this  privacy? 

SCENE  VI. 
ARSACES  and  BETHAS. 

ARSACES. 
Health  to  the  noble  Bethas,  health  and  joy! 


54  Representative  Plays 

BETHAS. 

A  steady  harden 'd  villain,  one  experienc'd 
In  his  employment;  ha!  where's  thy  dagger? 
It  cannot  give  me  fear;   I'm  ready,  see, 
My  op'ning  bosom  tempts  the  friendly  steel. 
Fain  would  I  cast  this  tiresome  being  off, 
Like  an  old  garment  worn  to  wretchedness. 
Here,  strike  for  I'm  prepar'd. 

ARSACES. 

Oh !  view  me  better, 
Say,  do  I  wear  the  gloomy  ruffian's  frown? 

BETHAS. 

Ha!  'tis  the  gallant  Prince,  the  brave  Arsaces, 
And  Bethas'  Conqueror. 

ARSACES. 

And  Bethas'  friend, 
A  name  I'm  proud  to  wear. 

BETHAS. 

Away — away — 

Mock  with  your  jester  to  divert  the  court, 
Fit  Scene  for  sportive  joys  and  frolic  mirth ; 
Think'st  thou  I  lack  that  manly  constancy 
Which  braves  misfortune,  and  remains  unshaken? 
Are  these,  are  these  the  emblems  of  thy  friendship, 
These  rankling  chains,  say,  does  it  gall  like  these? 
No,  let  me  taste  the  bitterness  of  sorrow, 
For  I  am  reconcil'd  to  wretchedness. 
The  Gods  have  empty'd  all  their  mighty  store, 
Of  hoarded  Ills,  upon  my  whiten'd  age; 
Now  death — but,  oh !  I  court  coy  death  in  vain, 
Like  a  cold  maid,  he  scorns  my  fond  complaining. 
'Tis  thou,  insulting  Prince,  'tis  thou  hast  dragg'd 
My  soul,  just  rising,  down  again  to  earth, 
And  clogg'd  her  wings  with  dull  mortality, 
A  hateful  bondage!  Why— 

ARSACES. 

A  moment  hear  me — 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  55 

BETH  AS. 

Why  dost  thou,  like  an  angry  vengeful  ghost, 
Glide  hither  to  disturb  this  peaceful  gloom? 
What,  dost  thou  envy  me  my  miseries, 
My  chains  and  flinty  pavement,  where  I  oft 
In  sleep  behold  the  image  of  the  death  I  wish, 
Forget  my  sorrows  and  heart-breaking  anguish? 
These  horrors  I  would  undisturb'd  enjoy, 
Attended  only  by  my  silent  thoughts; 
Is  it  to  see  the  wretch  that  you  have  made; 
To  view  the  ruins  of  unhappy  Bethas, 
And  triumph  in  my  grief?   Is  it  for  this 
You  penetrate  my  dark  joyless  prison? 

ARSACES. 

Oh!  do  not  injure  me  by  such  suspicions. 
Unknown  to  me  are  cruel  scoffs  and  jests; 
My  breast  can  feel  compassion's  tenderness, 
The  warrior's  warmth,  the  soothing  joys  of  friendship. 
When  adverse  bold  battalions  shook  the  earth, 
And  horror  triumph'd  on  the  hostile  field, 
I  sought  you  with  a  glorious  enmity, 
And  arm'd  my  brow  with  the  stern  frown  of  war. 
But  now  the  angry  trumpet  wakes  no  more 
The  youthful  champion  to  the  lust  for  blood. 
Retiring  rage  gives  place  to  softer  passions, 
And  gen'rous  warriors  know  no  longer  hate, 
The  name  of  foe  is  lost,  and  thus  I  ask 
Your  friendship. 

BETHAS. 
Ah !  why  dost  thou  mock  me  thus? 

ARSACES. 

Let  the  base  coward,  he  who  ever  shrinks, 
And  trembles,  at  the  slight  name  of  danger, 
Taunt,  and  revile,  with  bitter  gibes,  the  wretched ; 
The  brave  are  ever  to  distress  a  friend. 
Tho'  my  dear  country  (spoil'd  by  wasteful  war, 
Her  harvests  blazing,  desolate  her  towns, 
And  baleful  ruin  shew'd  her  haggard  face) 
Call'd  out  on  me  to  save  her  from  her  foes, 


56  Representative  Plays 

And  I  obey'd,  yet  to  your  gallant  prowess, 
And  unmatch'd  deeds,  I  admiration  gave. 
But  now  my  country  knows  the  sweets  of  safety, 
Freed  from  her  fears;  sure  now  I  may  indulge 
My  just  esteem  for  your  superior  virtue. 

BETHAS. 

Yes,  I  must  think  you  what  you  would  be  thought, 
For  honest  minds  are  easy  of  belief, 
And  always  judge  of  others  by  themselves, 
But  often  are  deceiv'd;  yet  Parthia  breeds  not 
Virtue  much  like  thine,  the  barb'rous  clime  teems 
With  nought  else  but  villains  vers'd  in  ill. 

ARSACES. 

Dissimulation  never  mark'd  my  looks, 
Nor  flatt'ring  deceit  e'er  taught  my  tongue, 
The  tale  of  falsehood,  to  disguise  my  thoughts: 
To  Virtue,  and  her  fair  companion,  Truth, 
I've  ever  bow'd,  their  holy  precepts  kept, 
And  scann'd  by  them  the  actions  of  my  life. 
Suspicion  surely  ne'er  disturbs  the  brave, 
They  never  know  the  fears  of  doubting  thoughts; 
But  free,  as  are  the  altars  of  the  Gods, 
From  ev'ry  hand  receive  the  sacrifice. 

SCENE  VII. 
ARSACES,  BETHAS,  EVANTHE  and  CLEONE. 

EVANTHE. 

Heav'ns!  what  a  gloom  hangs  round  this  dreadful  place, 
Fit  habitation  for  the  guilty  mind! 
Oh !  if  such  terrors  wait  the  innocent, 
Which  tread  these  vaults,  what  must  the  impious  feel, 
Who've  all  their  crimes  to  stare  them  in  the  face? 

BETHAS. 

Immortal  Gods!  is  this  reality? 
Or  mere  illusion?  am  I  blest  at  last, 
Or  is  it  to  torment  me  that  you've  rais'd 
This  semblance  of  Evanthe  to  my  eyes? 
It  is!  it  is!  'tis  she! — 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  57 

ARSACES. 

Ha! — what  means  this? — 
She  faints!  she  faints!  life  has  forsook  its  seat, 
Pale  Death  usurps  its  place — Evanthe,  Oh ! 
Awake  to  life ! — Love  and  Arsaces  call ! — 

BETHAS. 

Off — give  her  to  my  arms,  my  warm  embrace 
Shall  melt  Death's  icy  chains. 

CLEONE. 

She  lives!  she  lives  I — 
See,  on  her  cheeks  the  rosy  glow  returns. 

ARSACES. 

O  joy!  O  joy!  her  op'ning  eyes,  again, 
Break,  like  the  morning  sun,  a  better  day. 

BETHAS. 

Evanthe ! — 
EVANTHE. 

Oh!  my  Father!—  • 

ARSACES. 

Ha!— her  Father! 

BETHAS. 

Heav'n  thou  art  kind  at  last,  and  this  indeed 
Is  recompense  for  all  the  ills  I've  past; 
For  all  the  sorrows  which  my  heart  has  known, 
Each  wakeful  night,  and  ev'ry  day  of  anguish. 
This,  this  has  sweet'n'd  all  my  bitter  cup, 
And  gave  me  once  again  to  taste  of  joy, 
Joy  which  has  long  been  stranger  to  this  bosom. 
Hence — hence  disgrace — off,  ignominy  off — 
But  one  embrace — I  ask  but  one  embrace, 
And  'tis  deny'd. 

EVANTHE. 

Oh,  yes,  around  thy  neck 
I'll  fold  my  longing  arms,  thy  softer  fetters, 
Thus  press  thee  to  my  happy  breast,  and  kiss 
Away  those  tears  that  stain  thy  aged  cheeks. 


58  Representative  Plays 

BETHAS. 

Oh!  'tis  too  much!  it  is  too  much!  ye  Gods! 
Life's  at  her  utmost  stretch,  and  bursting  near 
With  heart-swoln  ecstasy;   now  let  me  die. 

ARSACES. 

What  marble  heart 

Could  see  this  scene  unmov'd,  nor  give  a  tear? 
My  eyes  grow  dim,  and  sympathetic  passion 
Falls  like  a  gushing  torrent  on  my  bosom. 

EVANTHE. 

O!  happy  me,  this  place,  which  lately  seem'd 
So  fill'd  with  horror,  now  is  pleasure's  circle. 
Here  will  I  fix  my  seat;  my  pleasing  task 
Shall  be  to  cherish  thy  remaining  life. 
All  night  I'll  keep  a  vigil  o'er  thy  slumbers, 
And  on  my  breast  repose  thee,  mark  thy  dreams, 
And  when  thou  wak'st  invent  some  pleasing  tale, 
Or  with  my  songs  the  tedious  hours  beguile. 

BETHAS. 

Still  let  me  gaze,  still  let  me  gaze  upon  thee, 
Let  me  strain  ev'ry  nerve  with  ravishment, 
And  all  my  life  be  center'd  in  my  vision. 
To  see  thee  thus,  to  hear  thy  angel  voice, 
It  is,  indeed,  a  luxury  of  pleasure! — 
Speak,  speak  again,  for  oh!   'tis  heav'n  to  hear  thee! 
Celestial  sweetness  dwells  on  ev'ry  accent; — 
Lull  me  to  rest,  and  sooth  my  raging  joy. 
Joy  which  distracts  me  with  unruly  transports. 
Now,  by  thy  dear  departed  Mother's  shade, 
Thou  brightest  pattern  of  all  excellence, 
Thou  who  in  prattling  infancy  hast  blest  me, 
I  wou'd  not  give  this  one  transporting  moment, 
This  fullness  of  delight,  for  all — but,  ah ! 
'Tis  vile,  Ambition,  Glory,  all  is  vile, 
To  the  soft  sweets  of  love  and  tenderness. 

EVANTHE. 

Now  let  me  speak,  my  throbbing  heart  is  full, 
I'll  tell  thee  all— alas!   I  have  forgot— 
'T  'as  slipt  me  in  the  tumult  of  my  joy. 
And  yet  I  thought  that  I  had  much  to  say. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  59 

BETHAS. 

Oh !  I  have  curs'd  my  birth,  indeed,  I  have 
Blasphem'd  the  Gods,  with  unbecoming  passion, 
Arraign'd  their  Justice,  and  defy'd  their  pow'r, 
In  bitterness,  because  they  had  deny'd 
Thee  to  support  the  weakness  of  my  age. 
But  now  no  more  I'll  rail  and  rave  at  fate, 
All  its  decrees  are  just,  complaints  are  impious, 
Whate'er  short-sighted  mortals  feel,  springs  from 
Their  blindness  in  the  ways  of  Providence; 
Sufficient  wisdom  'tis  for  man  to  know 
That  the  great  Ruler  is  e'er  wise  and  good. 

ARSACES. 
Ye  figur'd  stones! 

Ye  senseless,  lifeless  images  of  men,  -^^  acS_^_    .v^x 

Who  never  gave  a  tear  to  others'  woe,  "^    ^       "^3 

Whose  bosoms  never  glow'd  for  others'  good, 

0  weary  heav'n  with  your  repeated  pray'rs, 
And  strive  to  melt  the  angry  pow'rs  to  pity, 
That  ye  may  truly  live. 

EVANTHE. 

Oh !  how  my  heart 
Beats  in  my  breast,  and  shakes  my  trembling  frame! 

1  sink  beneath  this  sudden  flood  of  joy, 
Too  mighty  for  my  spirits. 

ARSACES. 

My  Evanthe, 

Thus  in  my  arms  I  catch  thy  falling  beauties, 
Chear  thee;  and  kiss  thee  back  to  life  again: 
Thus  to  my  bosom  I  could  ever  hold  thee, 
And  find  new  pleasure. 

EVANTHE. 

O!  my  lov'd  Arsaces, 
Forgive  me  that  I  saw  thee  not  before, 
Indeed  my  soul  was  busily  employ'd, 
Nor  left  a  single  thought  at  liberty. 
But  thou,  I  know,  art  gentleness  and  love. 
Now  I  am  doubly  paid  for  all  my  sorrows, 
For  all  my  fears  for  thee. 


60  Representative  Plays 

ARSACES. 

Then,  fear  no  more: 
Give  to  guilty  wretches  painful  terrors: 
Whose  keen  remembrance  raises  horrid  forms, 
Shapes  that  in  spite  of  nature  shock  their  souls 
With  dreadful  anguish:  but  thy  gentle  bosom, 
Where  innocence  beams  light  and  gayety, 
Can  never  know  a  fear,  now  shining  joy 
Shall  gild  the  pleasing  scene. 

EVANTHE. 

Alas!  this  joy 

I  fear  is  like  a  sudden  flame  shot  from 
Th'  expiring  taper,  darkness  will  ensue, 
And  double  night  I  dread  enclose  us  round. 
Anxiety  does  yet  disturb  my  breast, 
And  frightful  apprehension  shakes  my  soul. 

BETHAS. 

How  shall  I  thank  you,  ye  bright  glorious  beings! 
Shall  I  in  humble  adoration  bow, 
Or  fill  the  earth  with  your  resounding  praise? 
No,  this  I  leave  to  noisy  hypocrites, 
A  Mortal's  tongue  disgraces  such  a  theme; 
But  heav'n  delights  where  silent  gratitude 
Mounts  each  aspiring  thought  to  its  bright  throne, 
Nor  leaves  to  language  aught;  words  may  indeed 
From  man  to  man  their  sev'ral  wants  express, 
Heav'n  asks  the  purer  incense  of  the  heart. 

ARSACES. 

I'll  to  the  King,  ere  he  retires  to  rest, 
Nor  will  I  leave  him  'til  I've  gain'd  your  freedom; 
His  love  will  surely  not  deny  me  this. 

SCENE  VIII. 
VARDANES  and  LYSIAS  come  forward. 

LYSIAS. 

'Twas  a  moving  scene,  e'en  my  rough  nature 
Was  nighly  melted. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  61 

VARDANES. 

Hence  coward  pity — 
What  is  joy  to  them,  to  me  is  torture. 
Now  am  I  rack'd  with  pains  that  far  exceed 
Those  agonies,  which  fabling  Priests  relate, 
The  damn'd  endure:  The  shock  of  hopeless  Love, 
Unblest  with  any  views  to  sooth  ambition, 
Rob  me  of  all  my  reas'ning  faculties. 
Arsaces  gains  Evanthe,  fills  the  throne, 
While  I  am  doom'd  to  foul  obscurity, 
To  pine  and  grieve  neglected. 

LYSIAS. 

My  noble  Prince, 

Would  it  not  be  a  master-piece,  indeed, 
To  make  this  very  bliss  their  greatest  ill, 
And  damn  them  in  the  very  folds  of  joy? 

VARDANES. 

This  I  will  try,  and  stretch  my  utmost  art, 
Unknown  is  yet  the  means — We'll  think  on  that — 
Success  may  follow  if  you'll  lend  your  aid. 

LYSIAS. 

The  storm  still  rages — I  must  to  the  King, 
And  know  what  further  orders  ere  he  sleeps: 
Soon  I'll  return,  and  speak  my  mind  more  fully. 

VARDANES. 

Haste,  Lysias,  haste,  to  aid  me  with  thy  council ; 
For  without  thee,  all  my  designs  will  prove 
Like  night  and  chaos,  darkness  and  confusion; 
But  to  thy  word  shall  light  and  order  spring. — 
Let  coward  Schoolmen  talk  of  Virtue's  rules, 
And  preach  the  vain  Philosophy  of  fools; 
Court  eager  their  obscurity,  afraid 
To  taste  a  joy,  and  in  some  gloomy  shade 
Dream  o'er  their  lives,  while  in  a  mournful  strain 
They  sing  of  happiness  they  never  gain. 
But  form'd  for  nobler  purposes  I  come, 
To  gain  a  crown,  or  else  a  glorious  tomb. 

End  of  the  Second  Act. 


62  Representative  Plays 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.    The  Palace. 
QUEEN  and  EDESSA. 

QUEEN. 

Talk  not  of  sleep  to  me,  the  God  of  Rest 
Disdains  to  visit  where  disorder  reigns; 
Not  beds  of  down,  nor  music's  softest  strains, 
Can  charm  him  when  'tis  anarchy  within. 
He  flies  with  eager  haste  the  mind  disturb'd, 
And  sheds  his  blessings  where  the  soul's  in  peace. 

EDESSA. 
Yet,  hear  me,  Madam! 

QUEEN. 

Hence,  away,  Edessa, 

For  thou  know'st  not  the  pangs  of  jealousy. 
Say,  has  he  not  forsook  my  bed,  and  left  me 
Like  a  lone  widow  mourning  to  the  night? 
This,  with  the  injury  his  son  has  done  me, 
If  I  forgive,  may  heav'n  in  anger  show'r 
Its  torments  on  me — Ha!  isn't  that  the  King! 

EDESSA. 
It  is  your  Royal  Lord,  great  Artabanus. 

QUEEN. 

Leave  me,  for  I  would  meet  him  here  alone, 
Something  is  lab'ring  in  my  breast — 

SCENE  II. 
KING  and  QUEEN. 
KING. 
This  leads 
To  fair  Evanthe's  chamber — Ha !  the  Queen. 

QUEEN. 

Why  dost  thou  start?  so  starts  the  guilty  wretch, 
When,  by  some  watchful  eye,  prevented  from 
His  dark  designs. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  63 

KING. 

Prevented!  how,  what  mean'st  thou? 

QUEEN. 

Art  thou  then  so  dull?  cannot  thy  heart, 
Thy  changeling  heart,  explain  my  meaning  to  thee, 
Or  must  upbraiding  'wake  thy  apprehension? 
Ah !  faithless,  tell  me,  have  I  lost  those  charms 
Which  thou  so  oft  hast  sworn  could  warm  old  age, 
And  tempt  the  frozen  hermit  from  his  cell, 
To  visit  once  again  our  gayer  world? 
This,  thou  hast  sworn,  perfidious  as  thou  art, 
A  thousand  times;  as  often  hast  thou  sworn 
Eternal  constancy,  and  endless  love, 
Yet  ev'ry  time  was  perjur'd. 

KING. 
Sure,  'tis  frenzy. 

QUEEN. 

Indeed,  'tis  frenzy,  'tis  the  height  of  madness, 
For  I  have  wander'd  long  in  sweet  delusion. 
At  length  the  pleasing  Phantom  chang'd  its  form, 
And  left  me  in  a  wilderness  of  woe. 

KING. 

Prithee,  no  more,  dismiss  those  jealous  heats; 
Love  must  decay,  and  soon  disgust  arise, 
Where  endless  jarrings  and  upbraidings  damp 
The  gentle  flame,  which  warms  the  lover's  breast. 

QUEEN. 

Oh!  grant  me  patience  heav'n!  and  dost  thou  think 
By  these  reproaches  to  disguise  thy  guilt? 
No,  'tis  in  vain,  thy  art's  too  thin  to  hide  it. 

KING. 

Curse  on  the  marriage  chain! — the  clog,  a  wife, 
Who  still  will  force  and  pall  us  with  the  joy, 
Tho'  pow'r  is  wanting,  and  the  will  is  cloy'd, 
Still  urge  the  debt  when  Nothing's  left  to  pay. 

QUEEN. 

Ha!  dost  thou  own  thy  crime,  nor  feel  the  glow 
Of  conscious  shame? 


64  Representative  Plays 

KING. 

Why  should  I  blush,  if  heav'n 
Has  made  me  as  I  am,  and  gave  me  passions? 
Blest  only  in  variety,  then  blame 
The  Gods,  who  form'd  my  nature  thus,  not  me. 

QUEEN. 
Oh!  Traitor!  Villain! 

KING. 

Hence — away — 
No  more  I'll  wage  a  woman's  war  with  words.  [Exit. 

QUEEN. 

Down,  down  ye  rising  passions,  give  me  ease, 
Or  break  my  heart,  for  I  must  yet  be  calm — 
But,  yet,  revenge,  our  Sex's  joy,  is  mine; 
By  all  the  Gods!  he  lives  not  till  the  morn. 
Who  slights  my  love,  shall  sink  beneath  my  hate. 

SCENE  III. 
QUEEN  and  VARDANES. 

VARDANES. 
What,  raging  to  the  tempest? 

QUEEN. 

Away ! — away ! — 

Yes,  I  will  rage — a  tempest's  here  within, 
Above  the  trifling  of  the  noisy  elements. 
Blow  ye  loud  winds,  burst  with  your  violence, 
For  ye  but  barely  imitate  the  storm 
That  wildly  rages  in  my  tortur'd  breast — 
The  King — the  King — 

VARDANES. 

Ha!  what?— the  King? 

QUEEN. 
Evanthe ! 

VARDANES. 

You  talk  like  riddles,  still  obscure  and  short, 
Give  me  some  cue  to  guide  me  thro'  this  maze. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  65 

QUEEN. 

Ye  pitying  pow'rs! — oh!  for  a  poison,  some 
Curs'd  deadly  draught,  that  I  might  blast  her  beauties, 
And  rob  her  eyes  of  all  their  fatal  lustre. 

VARDANES. 

What,  blast  her  charms? — dare  not  to  think  of  it — 
Shocking  impiety; — the  num'rous  systems 
Which  gay  creation  spreads,  bright  blazing  suns, 
With  all  th'  attendant  planets  circling  round, 
Are  not  worth  half  the  radiance  of  her  eyes. 
She's  heav'n's  peculiar  care,  good  spir'ts  hover 
Round,  a  shining  band,  to  guard  her  beauties. 

QUEEN. 

Be  they  watchful  then:  for  should  remissness 
Taint  the  guard,  I'll  snatch  the  opportunity, 
And  hurl  her  to  destruction. 

VARDANES. 

Dread  Thermusa, 

Say,  what  has  rous'd  this  tumult  in  thy  soul? 
What  dost  thou  rage  with  unabating  fury, 
Wild  as  the  winds,  loud  as  the  troubl'd  sea? 

QUEEN. 

Yes,  I  will  tell  thee — Evanthe — curse  her — 
With  charms — Would  that  my  curses  had  the  pow'r 
To  kill,  destroy,  and  blast  where  e'er  I  hate, 
Then  would  I  curse,  still  curse,  till  death  should  seize 
The  dying  accents  on  my  falt'ring  tongue. 
So  should  this  world,  and  the  false  changeling  man 
Be  buried  in  one  universal  ruin. 

VARDANES. 
Still  err'st  thou  from  the  purpose. 

QUEEN. 

Ha!  'tis  so — 

Yes  I  will  tell  thee — for  I  know  fond  fool, 
Deluded  wretch,  thou  dotest  on  Evanthe — 
Be  that  thy  greatest  curse,  be  curs'd  like  me, 
With  jealousy  and  rage,  for  know,  the  King, 
Thy  father,  is  thy  rival. 


66  Representative  Plays 

SCENE  IV. 

VARDANES  [alone]. 

Ha !  my  rival ! 

How  knew  she  that? — yet  stay — she's  gone — my  rival, 
What  then?  he  is  Arsaces'  rival  too. 
Ha! — this  may  aid  and  ripen  my  designs — 
Could  I  but  fire  the  King  with  jealousy, 
And  then  accuse  my  Brother  of  Intrigues 
Against  the  state — ha! — join'd  with  Bethas,  and 
Confed'rate  with  th'  Arabians — 'tis  most  likely 
That  jealousy  would  urge  him  to  belief. 
I'll  sink  my  claim  until  some  fitter  time, 
'Til  opportunity  smiles  on  my  purpose. 
Lysias  already  has  receiv'd  the  mandate 
For  Bethas'  freedom:  Let  them  still  proceed, 
This  harmony  shall  change  to  discord  soon. 
Fortune  methinks  of  late  grows  wond'rous  kind, 
She  scarcely  leaves  me  to  employ  myself. 

SCENE  V. 
KING,  ARSACES,  VARDANES. 

KING. 
But  where's  Evanthe?  Where's  the  lovely  Maid? 

ARSACES. 

On  the  cold  pavement,  by  her  aged  Sire, 
The  dear  companion  of  his  solitude, 
She  sits,  nor  can  persuasion  make  her  rise; 
But  in  the  wild  extravagance  of  joy 
She  weeps,  then  smiles,  like  April's  sun,  thro'  show'rs. 
While  with  strain'd  eyes  he  gazes  on  her  face, 
And  cries,  in  ecstacy,  "Ye  gracious  pow'rs! 
"It  is  too  much,  it  is  too  much  to  bear!" 
Then  clasps  her  to  his  breast,  while  down  his  cheeks 
Large  drops  each  other  trace,  and  mix  with  hers. 

KING. 

Thy  tale  is  moving,  for  my  eyes  o'erflow — 
How  slow  does  Lysias  with  Evanthe  creep! 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  67 

So  moves  old  time  when  bringing  us  to  bliss. 
Now  war  shall  cease,  no  more  of  war  I'll  have, 
Death  knows  satiety,  and  pale  destruction 
Turns  loathing  from  his  food,  thus  forc'd  on  him. 
The  triffling  dust,  the  cause  of  all  this  ruin, 
The  trade  of  death  shall  urge  no  more. — 


SCENE  VI. 
KING,  ARSACES,  VARDANES,  EVANTHE,  LYSIAS. 

KING. 

Evanthe ! — 

See  pleasure's  goddess  deigns  to  dignify 
The  happy  scene,  and  make  our  bliss  complete. 
So  Venus,  from  her  heav'nly  seat,  descends 
To  bless  the  gay  Cythera  with  her  presence; 
A  thousand  smiling  graces  wait  the  goddess, 
A  thousand  little  loves  are  flutt'ring  round, 
And  joy  is  mingl'd  with  the  beauteous  train. 

EVANTHE. 

O!  Royal  Sir,  thus  lowly  to  the  ground 
I  bend,  in  humble  gratitude,  accept 
My  thanks,  for  this  thy  goodness,  words  are  vile 
T'  express  the  image  of  my  lively  thought, 
And  speak  the  grateful  fulness  of  my  heart. 
All  I  can  say,  is  that  I  now  am  happy, 
And  that  thy  giving  hand  has  made  me  blest. 

KING. 

O !  rise,  Evanthe  rise,  this  lowly  posture 
Suits  not  with  charms  like  thine,  they  should  command, 
And  ev'ry  heart  exult  in  thy  behests; — 
But,  where's  thy  aged  Sire? 

EVANTHE. 
This  sudden  turn 

Of  fortune  has  so  wrought  upon  his  frame, 
His  limbs  could  not  support  him  to  thy  presence. 

ARSACES. 
This,  this  is  truly  great,  this  is  the  Hero, 


68  Representative  Plays 

Like  heav'n,  to  scatter  blessings  'mong  mankind 

And  e'er  delight  in  making  others  happy. 

Cold  is  the  praise  which  waits  the  victor's  triumph 

(Who  thro'  a  sea  of  blood  has  rush'd  to  glory), 

To  the  o'erflowings  of  a  grateful  heart, 

By  obligations  conquer'd :  Yet,  extend 

Thy  bounty  unto  me.  [Kneels. 

KING. 
Ha!  rise  Arsaces. 

ARSACES. 
Not  till  you  grant  my  boon. 

KING. 

Speak,  and  'tis  thine — 

Wide  thro'  our  kingdom  let  thy  eager  wishes 
Search  for  some  jewel  worthy  of  thy  seeing; 
Something  that's  fit  to  show  the  donor's  bounty, 
And  by  the  glorious  sun,  our  worship'd  God, 
Thou  shalt  not  have  denial ;  e'en  my  crown 
Shall  gild  thy  brows  with  shining  beams  of  Empire. 
With  pleasure  I'll  resign  to  thee  my  honours, 
I  long  for  calm  retirement's  softer  joys. 

ARSACES. 

Long  may  you  wear  it,  grant  it  bounteous  heav'n, 
And  happiness  attend  it;   'tis  my  pray'r 
That  daily  rises  with  the  early  sweets 
Of  nature's  incense,  and  the  lark's  loud  strain. 
'Tis  not  the  unruly  transport  of  ambition 
That  urges  my  desires  to  ask  your  crown; 
Let  the  vain  wretch,  who  prides  in  gay  dominion, 
Who  thinks  not  of  the  great  ones'  weighty  cares, 
Enjoy  -his  lofty  wish,  wide  spreading  rule. 
The  treasure  which  I  ask,  put  in  the  scale, 
Would  over-balance  all  that  Kings  can  boast, 
Empire  and  diadems. 

KING. 

Away,  that  thought — 
Name  it,  haste — speak. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  69 

ARSACES. 

For  all  the  dang'rous  toil, 
Thirst,  hunger,  marches  long  that  I've  endur'd, 
For  all  the  blood  I've  in  thy  service  spent, 
Reward  me  with  Evanthe. 

KING. 
Ha!  what  said'st  thou?— 

VARDANES. 

The  King  is  mov'd,  and  angry  bites  his  lip. — 
Thro'  my  benighted  soul  all-cheering  hope  [Aside. 

Beams,  like  an  orient  sun,  reviving  joy. 

ARSACES. 

The  stern  Vonones  ne'er  could  boast  a  merit 
But  loving  her. 

KING. 

Ah!  curse  the  hated  name — 
Yes,  I  remember  when  the  fell  ruffian 
Directed  all  his  fury  at  my  life; 
Then  sent,  by  pitying  heav'n,  t'  assert  the  right 
Of  injur'd  Majesty,  thou,  Arsaces, 
Taught  him  the  duty  he  ne'er  knew  before, 
And  laid  the  Traitor  dead. 

ARSACES. 

My  Royal  Sire! 
LYSIAS. 

My  Liege,  the  Prince  still  kneels. 

KING. 

Ha!— rebel,  off—         [Strikes  him. 
What,  Lyslas,  did  I  strike  thee?  forgive  my  rage — 
The  name  of  curs'd  Vonones  fires  my  blood, 
And  gives  me  up  to  wrath. — 

LYSIAS. 

I  am  your  slave, 

Sway'd  by  your  pleasure — when  I  forget  it, 
May  this  keen  dagger,  which  I  mean  to  hide 
Deep  in  his  bosom,  pierce  my  vitals  thro*.  [Aside. 


7O  Representative  Plays 

KING. 
Didst  thou  not  name  Evanthe? 

ARSACES. 

I  did,  my  Lord! 

And,  say,  whom  should  I  name  but  her,  in  whom 
My  soul  has  center'd  all  her  happiness? 
Nor  canst  thou  blame  me,  view  her  wond'rous  charms, 
She's  all  perfection;  bounteous  heav'n  has  form'd  her 
To  be  the  joy,  and  wonder  of  mankind; 
But  language  is  too  vile  to  speak  her  beauties. 
Here  ev'ry  pow'r  of  glowing  fancy's  lost: 
Rose  blush  secure,  ye  lilies  still  enjoy 
Your  silver  whiteness,  I'll  not  rob  your  charms 
To  deck  the  bright  comparison ;  for  here 
It  sure  must  fail. 

KING. 

He's  wanton  in  her  praise —          [Aside. 
I  tell  thee,  Prince,  hadst  thou  as  many  tongues, 
As  days  have  wasted  since  creation's  birth, 
They  were  too  few  to  tell  the  mighty  theme. 

EVANTHE. 
I'm  lost!    I'm  lost!  [Aside. 

ARSACES. 

Then  I'll  be  dumb  for  ever. 
KING. 

O  rash  and  fatal  oath !  is  there  no  way, 
No  winding  path  to  shun  this  precipice, 
But  must  I  fall  and  dash  my  hopes  to  atoms? 
In  vain  I  strive,  thought  but  perplexes  me, 
Yet  shews  no  hold  to  bear  me  up — now,  hold 
My  heart  a  while — she's  thine — 'tis  done. 

ARSACES. 

In  deep 
Prostration,  I  thank  my  Royal  Father. 

KING. 

A  sudden  pain  shoots  thro'  my  trembling  breast — 
Lend  me  thy  arm  Vardanes — cruel  pow'rs! 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  71 

SCENE  VII. 

ARSACES  and  EVANTHE. 

EVANTHE  [after  a  pause]. 
E'er  since  the  dawn  of  my  unhappy  life 
Joy  never  shone  serenely  on  my  soul ; 
Still  something  interven'd  to  cloud  my  day. 
Tell  me,  ye  pow'rs,  unfold  the  hidden  crime 
For  which  I'm  doom'd  to  this  eternal  woe, 
Thus  still  to  number  o'er  my  hours  with  tears? 
The  Gods  are  just  I  know,  nor  are  decrees 
In  hurry  shuffl'd  out,  but  where  the  bolt 
Takes  its  direction  justice  points  the  mark. 
Yet  still  in  vain  I  search  within  my  breast, 
I  find  no  sins  are  there  to  shudder  at — 
Nought  but  the  common  frailties  of  our  natures. 
Arsaces, — Oh ! — 

ARSACES. 

Ha!  why  that  look  of  anguish? 

Why  didst  thou  name  me  with  that  sound  of  sorrow? 
Ah !  say,  why  stream  those  gushing  tears  so  fast 
From  their  bright  fountain?  sparkling  joy  should  now 
Be  lighten'd  in  thine  eye,  and  pleasure  glow 
Upon  thy  rosy  cheek; — ye  sorrows  hence — 
'Tis  love  shall  triumph  now. 

EVANTHE. 

Oh!  [Sighs. 

ARSACES. 

What  means  that  sigh? 

Tell  me  why  heaves  thy  breast  with  such  emotion? 
Some  dreadful  thought  is  lab'ring  for  a  vent, 
Haste,  give  it  loose,  ere  strengthen'd  by  confinement 
It  weeks  thy  frame,  and  tears  its  snowy  prison. 
Is  sorrow  then  so  pleasing  that  you  hoard  it 
With  as  much  love,  as  misers  do  their  gold? 
Give  me  my  share  of  sorrows. 

EVANTHE. 

Ah !  too  soon 
You'll  know  what  I  would  hide. 


72  Representative  Plays 

ARSACES. 

Be  it  from  thee — 

The  dreadful  tale,  when  told  by  thee,  shall  please; 
Haste,  to  produce  it  with  its  native  terrors, 
My  steady  soul  shall  still  remain  unshaken; 
For  who  when  bless'd  with  beauties  like  to  thine 
Would  e'er  permit  a  sorrow  to  intrude? 
Far  hence  in  darksome  shades  does  sorrow  dwell, 
Where  hapless  wretches  thro'  the  awful  gloom, 
Echo  their  woes,  and  sighing  to  the  winds, 
Augment  with  tears  the  gently  murm'ring  stream; 
But  ne'er  disturbs  such  happiness  as  mine. 

EVANTHE. 

Oh!  'tis  not  all  thy  boasted  happiness, 
Can  save  thee  from  disquietude  and  care; 
Then  build  not  too  securely  on  these  joys, 
For  envious  sorrow  soon  will  undermine, 
And  let  the  goodly  structure  fall  to  ruin. 

ARSACES. 

I  charge  thee,  by  our  mutual  vows,  Evanthe, 
Tell  me,  nor  longer  keep  me  in  suspense: 
Give  me  to  know  the  utmost  rage  of  fate. 

EVANTHE. 
Then  know — impossible! — 

ARSACES. 

Ha!  dost  thou  fear 
To  shock  me? — 

EVANTHE. 
Know,  thy  Father — loves  Evanthe. — 

ARSACES. 
Loves  thee? 

EVANTHE. 

Yea,  e'en  to  distraction  loves  me. 
Oft  at  my  feet  he's  told  the  moving  tale, 
And  woo'd  me  with  the  ardency  of  youth. 
I  pitied  him  indeed,  but  that  was  all, 
Thou  would'st  have  pitied  too. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  73 

ARSACES. 

I  fear  'tis  true; 

A  thousand  crouding  circumstances  speak  it. 
Ye  cruel  Gods!  I've  wreck'd  a  Father's  peace, 
Oh !  bitter  thought ! 

EVANTHE. 

Didst  thou  observe,  Arsaces, 
How  reluctant  he  gave  me  to  thy  arms? 

ARSACES. 

Yes,  I  observ'd  that  when  he  gave  thee  up, 
It  seem'd  as  tho'  he  gave  his  precious  life. 
And  who'd  forego  the  heav'n  of  thy  love? 
To  rest  on  thy  soft  swelling  breast,  and  in 
Sweet  slumbers  sooth  each  sharp  intruding  care? 
Oh !  it  were  bliss,  such  as  immortals  taste, 
To  press  thy  ruby  lips  distilling  sweets, 
Or  circl'd  in  thy  snowy  arms  to  snatch 
A  joy,  that  Gods 

EVANTHE. 

Come,  then,  my  much-lov'd  Prince, 

Let's  seek  the  shelter  of  some  kind  retreat. 
I  Happy  Arabia  opens  wide  her  arms, 
I  There  may  we  find  some  friendly  solitude, 
I  Far  from  the  noise  and  hurry  of  the  Court. 

Ambitious  views  shall  never  blast  our  joys, 

Or  tyrant  Fathers  triumph  o'er  our  wills: 

There  may  we  live  like  the  first  happy  pair 

Cloth'd  in  primeval  innocence  secure. 

Our  food  untainted  by  luxurious  arts, 

Plain,  simple,  as  our  lives,  shall  not  destroy 

The  health  it  should  sustain ;  while  the  clear  brook 

Affords  the  cooling  draught  our  thirsts  to  quench. 

There,  hand  in  hand,  we'll  trace  the  citron  grove, 

While  with  the  songsters'  round  I  join  my  voice, 

To  hush  thy  cares  and  calm  thy  rufiTd  soul: 

Or,  on  some  flow'ry  bank  reclin'd,  my  strains 

Shall  captivate  the  natives  of  the  stream, 

While  on  its  crystal  lap  ourselves  we  view. 


74  Representative  Plays 

ARSACES. 

I  see  before  us  a  wide  sea  of  sorrows, 
Th'  angry  waves  roll  forward  to  o'erwhelm  us, 
Black  clouds  arise,  and  the  wind  whistles  loud. 
But  yet,  oh!  could  I  save  thee  from  the  wreck, 
Thou  beauteous  casket,  where  my  joys  are  stor'd, 
Let  the  storm  rage  with  double  violence, 
Smiling  I'd  view  its  wide  extended  horrors. 

EVANTHE. 

Tis  not  enough  that  we  do  know  the  ill, 
Say,  shall  we  calmly  see  the  tempest  rise, 
And  seek  no  shelter  from  th'  inclement  sky, 
But  bid  it  rage? — 

ARSACES. 

Ha!  will  he  force  thee  from  me? 
What,  tear  thee  from  my  fond  and  bleeding  heart? 
And  must  I  lose  thee  ever?  dreadful  word! 
Never  to  gaze  upon  thy  beauties  more? 
Never  to  taste  the  sweetness  of  thy  lips? 
Never  to  know  the  joys  of  mutual  love? 
Never! — Oh!  let  me  lose  the  pow'r  of  thinking, 
For  thought  is  near  allied  to  desperation. 
Why,  cruel  Sire— why  did  you  give  me  life, 
And  load  it  with  a  weight  of  wretchedness? 
Take  back  my  being,  or  relieve  my  sorrows — 
Ha!  art  thou  not  Evanthe? — Art  thou  not 
The  lovely  Maid,  who  bless'd  the  fond  Arsaces? —        [Raving. 

EVANTHE. 

O,  my  lov'd  Lord,  recall  your  scatter'd  spir'ts, 
Alas!  I  fear  your  senses  are  unsettl'd. 

ARSACES. 

Yes,  I  would  leave  this  dull  and  heavy  sense. 
Let  me  grow  mad;   perhaps,  I  then  may  gain 
Some  joy,  by  kind  imagination  form'd, 
Beyond  reality. — O!  my  Evanthe! 
Why  was  I  curs'd  with  empire?  born  to  rule? — 
Would  I  had  been  some  humble  Peasant's  son, 
And  thou  some  Shepherd's  daughter  on  the  plain; 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  75 

My  throne  some  hillock,  and  my  flock  my  subjects, 

My  crook  my  sceptre,  and  my  faithful  dog 

My  only  guard ;  nor  curs'd  with  dreams  of  greatness. 

At  early  dawn  I'd  hail  the  coming  day, 

And  join  the  lark  the  rival  of  his  lay; 

At  sultry  noon  to  some  kind  shade  repair, 

Thus  joyful  pass  the  hours,  my  only  care, 

To  guard  my  flock,  and  please  the  yielding  Fair. 


SCENE  VIII. 
KING. — VARDANES  behind  the  Scene. 

KING. 

I  will  not  think,  to  think  is  torment — Ha! 
See,  how  they  twine !  ye  furies  cut  their  hold. 
Now  their  hot  blood  beats  loud  to  love's  alarms; 
Sigh  presses  sigh,  while  from  their  sparkling  eyes 
Flashes  desire— Oh !  ye  bright  heav'nly  beings, 
Who  pitying  bend  to  suppliant  Lovers'  pray'rs, 
And  aid  them  in  extremity,  assist  me! 

VARDANES. 

Thus,  for  the  Trojan,  mourn'd  the  Queen  of  Carthage; 
So,  on  the  shore  she  raving  stood,  and  saw 
His  navy  leave  her  hospitable  shore. 
In  vain  she  curs'd  the  wind  which  fill'd  their  sails, 
And  bore  the  emblem  of  its  change  away.  [Comes  forward. 

KING. 
Vardanes — Ha! — come  here,  I  know  thou  lov'st  me. 

VARDANES. 

I  do,  my  Lord;  but,  say,  what  busy  villain 
Durst  e'er  approach  your  ear,  with  coz'ning  tales, 
And  urge  you  to  a  doubt? 

KING. 

None,  none  believe  me. 

I'll  ne'er  oppress  thy  love  with  fearful  doubt — 
A  little  nigher — let  me  lean  upon  thee — 
And  thou  be  my  support — for  now  I  mean 
T'  unbosom  to  thee  free  without  restraint: 


76  Representative  Plays 

Search  all  the  deep  recesses  of  my  soul, 
And  open  ev'ry  darling  thought  before  thee, 
Which  long  I've  secreted  with  jealous  care. 
Pray,  mark  me  well. 

VARDANES. 

I  will,  my  Royal  Sire. 
KING. 

On  Anna  thus  reclin'd  the  love-sick  Dido; 
Thus  to  her  cheek  laid  hers  with  gentle  pressure, 
And  wet  her  sister  with  a  pearly  show'r, 
Which  fell  from  her  sad  eyes,  then  told  her  tale, 
While  gentle  Anna  gave  a  pitying  tear, 
And  own'd  'twas  moving — thou  canst  pity  too, 
I  know  thy  nature  tender  and  engaging. 

VARDANES. 

Tell  me,  my  gracious  Lord,  what  moves  you  thus? 
Why  is  your  breast  distracted  with  these  tumults? 
Teach  me  some  method  how  to  sooth  your  sorrows, 
And  give  your  heart  its  former  peace  and  joy; 
Instruct  thy  lov'd  Vardanes. — 

KING. 

Yes,  I'll  tell  thee; 

But  listen  with  attention  while  I  speak; 
And  yet  I  know  'twill  shock  thy  gentle  soul, 
And  horror  o'er  thee  '11  spread  his  palsy  hand. 
O,  my  lov'd  Son !  thou  fondness  of  my  age ! 
Thou  art  the  prop  of  my  declining  years, 
In  thee  alone  I  find  a  Father's  joy, 
Of  all  my  offspring:  but  Arsaces — 

VARDANES. 

Ha! 
My  Brother! — 

KING. 

Ay — why  dost  start? — thy  Brother 
Pursues  me  with  his  hate:  and,  while  warm  life 
Rolls  the  red  current  thro'  my  veins,  delights 
To  see  me  tortur'd ;  with  an  easy  smile 
He  meets  my  suff'rings,  and  derides  my  pain. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  77 

VARDANES. 

Oh! 

KING. 

What  means  that  hollow  groan? — Vardanes,  speak, 
Death's  image  fits  upon  thy  pallid  cheek, 
While  thy  low  voice  sounds  as  when  murmurs  run 
Thro'  lengthen'd  vaults — 

VARDANES. 

O!  my  foreboding  thoughts.      [Aside. 
'Twas  this  disturb'd  my  rest;  when  sleep  at  night 
Lock'd  me  in  slumbers;  in  my  dreams  I  saw 
My  Brother's  crime — yet,  death ! — it  cannot  be — 

KING. 
Ha!— what  was  that?— 

VARDANES. 

O !  my  dread  Lord,  some  Villain 
Bred  up  in  lies,  and  train'd  to  treach'ry, 
Has  injur'd  you  by  vile  reports,  to  stain 
My  Princely  Brother's  honour. 

KING. 

Thou  know'st  more, 

Thy  looks  confess  what  thou  in  vain  wouldst  hide — 
And  hast  thou  then  conspir'd  against  me  too, 
And  sworn  concealment  to  your  practices? — 
Thy  guilt — 

VARDANES. 

Ha!  guilt! — what  guilt? — 

KING. 

Nay,  start  not  so— 
I'll  know  your  purposes,  spite  of  thy  art. 

VARDANES. 

O!  ye  great  Gods!  and  is  it  come  to  this? — 
My  Royal  Father  call  your  reason  home, 
Drive  these  loud  passions  hence,  that  thus  deform  you. 
My  Brother — Ah!  what  shall  I  say? — My  Brother 
Sure  loves  you  as  he  ought. 


78  Representative  Plays 

KING. 

Ha!  as  he  ought? — 

Hell  blister  thy  evasive  tongue — I'll  know  it — 
I  will;   I'll  search  thy  breast,  thus  will  I  open 
A  passage  to  your  secrets — yet  resolv'd — 
Yet  steady  in  your  horrid  villany — 
Tis  fit  that  I  from  whom  such  monsters  sprung 
No  more  should  burthen  earth — Ye  Parricides! — 
Here  plant  your  daggers  in  this  hated  bosom — 
Here  rive  my  heart,  and  end  at  once  my  sorrows, 
I  gave  ye  being,  that's  the  mighty  crime. 

VARDANES. 

I  can  no  more — here  let  me  bow  in  anguish — 
Think  not  that  I  e'er  join'd  in  his  designs, 
Because  I  have  conceal'd  my  knowledge  of  them: 
I  meant,  by  pow'rful  reason's  friendly  aid, 
To  turn  him  from  destruction's  dreadful  path, 
And  bring  him  to  a  sense  of  what  he  ow'd 
To  you  as  King  and  Father. 

KING. 
Say  on — I'll  hear. 

VARDANES. 

He  views  thy  sacred  life  with  envious  hate, 
As  'tis  a  bar  to  his  ambitious  hopes. 
On  the  bright  throne  of  Empire  his  plum'd  wishes 
Seat  him,  while  on  his  proud  aspiring  brows 
He  feels  the  pleasing  weight  of  Royalty. 
But  when  he  wakes  from  these  his  airy  dreams 
(Delusions  form'd  by  the  deceiver  hope, 
To  raise  him  to  the  glorious  height  of  greatness), 
Then  hurl  him  from  proud  Empire  to  subjection. 
Wild  wrath  will  quickly  swell  his  haughty  breast, 
Soon  as  he  finds  'tis  but  a  shadowy  blessing. — 
'Twas  fav'ring  accident  disco ver'd  to  me 
All  that  I  know;   this  Evening  as  I  stood 
Alone,  retir'd,  in  the  still  gallery, 
That  leads  up  to  th'  appartment  of  my  Brother, 
T'  indulge  my  melancholy  thoughts, — 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  79 

KING. 
Proceed— 
VARDANES. 

A  wretch  approach'd  with  wary  step,  his  eye 
Spoke  half  his  tale,  denoting  villany.^ 
In  hollow  murmurs  thus  he  question'd  me — 
Was  I  the  Prince? — I  answer'd  to  content  him — 
Then  in  his  hand  he  held  this  paper  forth. 
"Take  this,"  says  he,  "this  Bethas  greets  thee  with, 
"Keep  but  your  word  our  plot  will  meet  success." 
I  snatch'd  it  with  more  rashness  than  discretion, 
Which  taught  him  his  mistake.    In  haste  he  drew, 
And  aim'd  his  dagger  at  my  breast,  but  paid 
His  life,  a  forfeit,  for  his  bold  presuming. 

KING. 

0  Villain!  Villain! 

VARDANES. 

Here,  read  this,  my  Lord — 

1  read  it,  and  cold  horror  froze  my  blood. 
And  shook  me  like  an  ague. 

KING. 

Ha!— what's  this?— 

"Doubt  not  Arabia's  aid,  set  me  but  free, 
"I'll  easy  pass  on  the  old  cred'lous  King, 
"For  fair  Evanthe's  Father." — Thus  to  atoms — 
Oh!  could  I  tear  these  cursed  traitors  thus. 

[Tears  the  paper  into  pieces. 

VARDANES. 

Curses  avail  you  nothing,  he  has  pow'r, 
And  may  abuse  it  to  your  prejudice. 

KING. 
I  am  resolv'd — 

VARDANES. 

Tho'  Pris'ner  in  his  camp, 
Yet,  Bethas  was  attended  like  a  Prince, 
As  tho'  he  still  commanded  the  Arabians. 
Tis  true,  when  they  approach'd  the  royal  city, 
He  threw  him  into  chains  to  blind  our  eyes, 
A  shallow  artifice — 


80  Representative  Plays 

KING. 
That  is  a  Truth. 

VARDANES. 
And,  yet,  he  is  your  Son. 

KING. 
Ah!  that  indeed— 

VARDANES. 

Why,  that  still  heightens  his  impiety, 
To  rush  to  empire  thro'  his  Father's  blood, 
And,  in  return  of  life,  to  give  him  death. 

KING. 

Oh !  I  am  all  on  fire,  yes  I  must  tear 
These  folds  of  venom  from  me. 

VARDANES. 

Sure  'twas  Lysias 
That  cross'd  the  passage  now. 

KING. 

'Tis  to  my  wish. 

I'll  in,  and  give  him  orders  to  arrest 
My  traitor  Son  and  Bethas — Now  Vardanes 
Indulge  thy  Father  in  this  one  request — 
Seize,  with  some  horse,  Evanthe,  and  bear  her 
To  your  command — Oh!  I'll  own  my  weakness — 
I  love  with  fondness  mortal  never  knew — 
Not  Jove  himself,  when  he  forsook  his  heav'n, 
And  in  a  brutal  shape  disgrac'd  the  God, 
E'er  lov'd  like  me. 

VARDANES. 

I  will  obey  you,  Sir. 

SCENE  IX. 

VARDANES  [alone]. 

I'll  seize  her,  but  I'll  keep  her  for  myself, 
It  were  a  sin  to  give  her  to  his  age — 
To  twine  the  blooming  garland  of  the  spring 
Around  the  sapless  trunks  of  wither'd  oaks — 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  81 

The  night,  methinks,  grows  ruder  than  it  was, 

Thus  should  it  be,  thus  nature  should  be  shock'd, 

And  Prodigies,  affrighting  all  mankind, 

Foretell  the  dreadful  business  I  intend. 

The  earth  should  gape,  and  swallow  cities  up, 

Shake  from  their  haughty  heights  aspiring  tow'rs, 

And  level  mountains  with  the  vales  below; 

The  Sun  amaz'd  should  frown  in  dark  eclipse, 

And  light  retire  to  its  unclouded  heav'n; 

While  darkness,  bursting  from  her  deep  recess, 

Should  wrap  all  nature  in  eternal  night. — 

Ambition,  glorious  fever  of  the  mind,       -x 

'Tis  that  which  raises  us  above  mankind ;  / 

The  shining  mark  which  bounteous  heav'n  has  gave,  \ 

From  vulgar  souls  distinguishing  the  brave.  s 

End  of  the  Third  Act. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.  A  Prison. 
GOTARZES  and  PHRAATES. 

PHRAATES. 

Oh !  fly  my  Prince,  for  safety  dwells  not  here, 
Hence  let  me  urge  thy  flight  with  eager  haste. 
Last  night  thy  Father  sigh'd  his  soul  to  bliss,  c^ 

Base  murther'd — 

GOTARZES. 

Murther'd?  ye  Gods! — 

PHRAATES. 

Alas!  'tis  true. 

Stabb'd  in  his  slumber  by  a  traitor's  hand ; 
I  scarce  can  speak  it — horror  choaks  my  words — 
Lysias  it  was  who  did  the  damned  deed, 
Urg'd  by  the  bloody  Queen,  and  his  curs'd  rage, 
Because  the  King,  thy  Sire,  in  angry  mood, 
Once  struck  him  on  his  foul  dishonest  cheek. 
Suspicion  gave  me  fears  of  this,  when  first 
I  heard,  the  Prince,  Arsaces,  was  imprison'd, 
By  fell  Vardanes'  wiles. 


82  Representative  Plays 

GOTARZES. 

Oh!  horror!  horror! 

Hither  I  came  to  share  my  Brother's  sorrows, 
To  mingle  tears,  and  give  him  sigh  for  sigh; 
But  this  is  double,  double  weight  of  woe. 

PHRAATES. 

Tis  held  as  yet  a  secret  from  the  world. 
Frighted  by  hideous  dreams  I  shook  off  sleep, 
And  as  I  mus'd  the  garden  walks  along, 
Thro'  the  deep  gloom,  close  in  a  neighb'ring  walk, 
Vardanes  with  proud  Lysias  I  beheld, 
Still  eager  in  discourse  they  saw  not  me, 
For  yet  the  early  dawn  had  not  appear'd ; 
I  sought  a  secret  stand,  where  hid  from  view, 
I  heard  stern  Lysias,  hail  the  Prince  Vardanes 
As  Parthia's  dreaded  Lord!—"  Tis  done",  he  cry'd, 
1  'Tis  done,  and  Artabanus  is  no  more. 
"  The  blow  he  gave  me  is  repay 'd  in  blood; 
"  Now  shall  the  morn  behold  two  rising  suns: 
"  Vardanes  thou,  our  better  light,  shalt  bring 
"  Bright  day  and  joy  to  ev'ry  heart." 

GOTARZES. 

Why  slept 
Your  vengeance,  oh !  ye  righteous  Gods? 

PHRAATES. 

Then  told 

A  tale,  so  fill'd  with  bloody  circumstance, 
Of  this  damn'd  deed,  that  stiffen'd  me  with  horror. 
Vardanes  seem'd  to  blame  the  hasty  act, 
As  rash,  and  unadvis'd,  by  passion  urg'd, 
Which  never  yields  to  cool  reflection's  place. 
But,  being  done,  resolv'd  it  secret,  lest 
The  multitude  should  take  it  in  their  wise 
Authority  to  pry  into  his  death. 
Arsaces  was,  by  assassination, 
Doom'd  to  fall.    Your  name  was  mention'd  also — 
But  hurried  by  my  fears  away,  I  left 
The  rest  unheard — 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  83 

GOTARZES. 

What  can  be  done? — Reflection,  why  wilt  thou 
Forsake  us,  when  distress  is  at  our  heels? 
Phraates,  help  me,  aid  me  with  thy  council. 

PHRAATES. 

Then  stay  not  here,  fly  to  Barzaphernes, 
His  conqu'ring  troops  are  at  a  trivial  distance; 
Soon  will  you  reach  the  camp;  he  lov'd  your  Brother, 
And  your  Father  with  affection  serv'd ;  haste 
Your  flight,  whilst  yet  I  have  the  city-guard, 
For  Lysias  I  expect  takes  my  command. 
I  to  the  camp  dispatch'd  a  trusty  slave, 
Before  the  morn  had  spread  her  blushing  veil. 
Away,  you'll  meet  the  Gen'ral  on  the  road, 
On  such  a  cause  as  this  he'll  not  delay. 

GOTARZES. 
I  thank  your  love — 

SCENE  II. 

PHRAATES  [alone]. 

I'll  wait  behind,  my  stay 
May  aid  the  cause;  dissembling  I  must  learn, 
Necessity  shall  teach  me  how  to  vary 
My  features  to  the  looks  of  him  I  serve. 
I'll  thrust  myself  disguis'd  among  the  croud, 
And  fill  their  ears  with  murmurs  of  the  deed: 
Whisper  all  is  not  well,  blow  up  the  sparks 
Of  discord,  and  it  soon  will  flame  to  rage. 

SCENE  III. 
QUEEN  and  LYSIAS. 

QUEEN. 

Haste,  and  shew  me  to  the  Prince  Arsaces, 
Delay  not,  see  the  signet  of  Vardanes. 

LYSIAS. 

Royal  Thermusa,  why  this  eagerness? 
This  tumult  of  the  soul? — what  means  this  dagger? 
Ha! — I  suspect — 


84  Representative  Plays 

QUEEN. 

Hold— for  I'll  tell  thee,  Lysias. 
Tis — oh!  I  scarce  can  speak  the  mighty  joy — 
I  shall  be  greatly  blest  in  dear  revenge, 
'Tis  vengeance  on  Arsaces — yes,  this  hand 
Shall  urge  the  shining  poniard  to  his  heart, 
And  give  him  death — yea,  give  the  ruffian  death ; 
So  shall  I  smile  on  his  keen  agonies. 

LYSIAS. 

Ha!  am  I  robb'd  of  all  my  hopes  of  vengeance, 
Shall  I  then  calmly  stand  with  all  my  wrongs, 
And  see  another  bear  away  revenge? 

QUEEN. 

For  what  can  Lysias  ask  revenge,  to  bar 
His  Queen  of  hers? 

LYSIAS. 

Was  I  not  scorn'd,  and  spurn'd, 
With  haughty  insolence?  like  a  base  coward 
Refus'd  what  e'er  I  ask'd,  and  call'd  a  boaster? 
My  honour  sullied,  with  opprobrious  words, 
Which  can  no  more  its  former  brightness  know, 
'Til,  with  his  blood,  I've  wash'd  the  stains  away. 
Say,  shall  I  then  not  seek  for  glorious  vengeance? 

QUEEN. 

And  what  is  this,  to  the  sad  Mother's  griefs, 
Her  hope  cut  off,  rais'd  up  with  pain  and  care? 
Hadst  thou  e'er  supported  the  lov'd  Prattler? 
Hadst  thou  like  me  hung  o'er  his  infancy, 
Wasting  in  wakeful  mood  the  tedious  night, 
And  watch'd  his  sickly  couch,  far  mov'd  from  rest, 
Waiting  his  health's  return? — Ah!  hadst  thou  known 
The  parent's  fondness,  rapture,  toil  and  sorrow, 
The  joy  his  actions  gave,  and  the  fond  wish 
Of  something  yet  to  come,  to  bless  my  age, 
And  lead  me  down  with  pleasure  to  the  grave, 
Thou  wouldst  not  thus  talk  lightly  of  my  wrongs. 
But  I  delay— 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  85 

LYSIAS. 

To  thee  I  then  submit. 

Be  sure  to  wreck  a  double  vengeance  on  him ; 
If  that  thou  knowst  a  part  in  all  his  body, 
Where  pain  can  most  be  felt,  strike,  strike  him  there — 
And  let  him  know  the  utmost  height  of  anguish. 
It  is  a  joy  to  think  that  he  shall  fall, 
Tho'  'tis  another  hand  which  gives  the  blow. 

SCENE  IV. 
ARSACES  and  BETHAS. 

ARSACES. 

Why  should  I  linger  out  my  joyless  days, 
When  length  of  hope  is  length  of  misery? 
Hope  is  a  coz'ner,  and  beguiles  our  cares, 
Cheats  us  with  empty  shews  of  happiness, 
Swift  fleeting  joys  which  mock  the  faint  embrace; 
We  wade  thro'  ills  pursuing  of  the  meteor, 
Yet  are  distanc'd  still. 

BETHAS. 

Ah !  talk  not  of  hope — 

Hope  fled  when  bright  Astraea  spurn'd  this  earth, 
And  sought  her  seat  among  the  shining  Gods; 
Despair,  proud  tyrant,  ravages  my  breast, 
And  makes  all  desolation. 

ARSACES. 

How  can  I 

Behold  those  rev'rent  sorrows,  see  those  cheeks 
Moist  with  the  dew  which  falls  from  thy  sad  eyes, 
Nor  imitate  distraction's  frantic  tricks, 
And  chace  cold  lifeless  reason  from  her  throne? 
I  am  the  fatal  cause  of  all  this  sorrow, 
The  spring  of  ills, — to  know  me  is  unhappiness; — 
And  mis'ry,  like  a  hateful  plague,  pursues 
My  wearied  steps,  and  blasts  the  springing  verdure. 

BETHAS. 

No; — It  is  I  that  am  the  source  of  all, 
It  is  my  fortune  sinks  you  to  this  trouble; 


86  Representative  Plays 

Before  you  shower'd  your  gentle  pity  on  me, 

You  shone  the  pride  of  this  admiring  world. — 

Evanthe  springs  from  me,  whose  fatal  charms 

Produces  all  this  ruin. — Hear  me  heav'n! 

If  to  another  love  she  ever  yields, 

And  stains  her  soul  with  spotted  falsehood's  crime, 

If  e'en  in  expectation  tastes  a  bliss, 

Nor  joins  Arsaces  with  it,  I  will  wreck 

My  vengeance  on  her,  so  that  she  shall  be 

A  dread  example  to  all  future  times. 

ARSACES. 

Oh !  curse  her  not,  nor  threaten  her  with  anger, 
She  is  all  gentleness,  yet  firm  to  truth, 
And  blest  with  ev'ry  pleasing  virtue,  free 
From  levity,  her  sex's  character. 
She  scorns  to  chace  the  turning  of  the  wind, 
Varying  from  point  to  point. 

BETHAS. 

I  love  her,  ye  Gods! 

I  need  not  speak  the  greatness  of  my  love, 
Each  look  which  straining  draws  my  soul  to  hers 
Denotes  unmeasur'd  fondness;  but  mis'ry, 
Like  a  fretful  peevish  child,  can  scarce  tell 
What  it  would  wish,  or  aim  at. 

ARSACES. 

Immortals,  hear! 

Thus  do  I  bow  my  soul  in  humble  pray'r — 
Thou,  King  of  beings,  in  whose  breath  is  fate, 
Show'r  on  Evanthe  all  thy  choicest  blessings, 
And  bless  her  with  excess  of  happiness; 
If  yet,  there  is  one  bliss  reserv'd  in  store, 
And  written  to  my  name,  oh !  give  it  her, 
And  give  me  all  her  sorrows  in  return. 

BETHAS. 

'Rise,  'rise  my  Prince,  this  goodness  o'erwhelms  me, 
She's  too  unworthy  of  so  great  a  passion. 

ARSACES. 

I  know  not  what  it  means,  I'm  not  as  usual, 
Ill-boding  cares,  and  restless  fears  oppress  me, 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  87 

And  horrid  dreams  disturb,  and  fright,  my  slumbers; 

But  yesternight,  'tis  dreadful  to  relate, 

E'en  now  I  tremble  at  my  waking  thoughts, 

Methought,  I  stood  alone  upon  the  shore, 

And,  at  my  feet,  there  roll'd  a  sea  of  blood, 

High  wrought,  and  'midst  the  waves,  appear'd  my  Father, 

Struggling  for  life;  above  him  was  Vardanes, 

Pois'd  in  the  air,  he  seem'd  to  rule  the  storm, 

And,  now  and  then,  would  push  my  Father  down, 

And  for  a  space  he'd  sink  beneath  the  waves, 

And  then,  all  gory,  rise  to  open  view, 

His  voice  in  broken  accents  reach'd  my  ear, 

And  bade  me  save  him  from  the  bloody  stream; 

Thro'  the  red  billows  eagerly  I  rush'd, 

But  sudden  woke,  benum'd  with  chilling  fear. 

BETHAS. 

Most  horrible  indeed ! — but  let  it  pass, 
Tis  but  the  offspring  of  a  mind  disturb'd, 
For  sorrow  leaves  impressions  on  the  fancy, 
Which  shew  most  fearful  to  us  lock'd  in  sleep. 

ARSACES. 

Thermusa!  ha! — what  can  be  her  design? 
She  bears  this  way,  and  carries  in  her  looks 
An  eagerness  importing  violence. 
Retire — for  I  would  meet  her  rage  alone. 

SCENE  V. 
ARSACES  and  QUEEN. 

ARSACES. 

What  means  the  proud  Thermusa  by  this  visit, 
Stoops  heav'n-born  pity  to  a  breast  like  thine? 
Pity  adorns  th'  virtuous,  but  ne'er  dwells 
Where  hate,  revenge,  and  rage  distract  the  soul. 
Sure,  it  is  hate  that  hither  urg'd  thy  steps, 
To  view  misfortune  with  an  eye  of  triumph. 
I  know  thou  lov'st  me  not,  for  I  have  dar'd 
To  cross  thy  purposes,  and,  bold  in  censure, 
Spoke  of  thy  actions  as  they  merited. 
Besides,  this  hand  'twas  slew  the  curs'd  Vonones. 


88  Representative  Plays 

QUEEN. 

And  darst  thou  insolent  to  name  Vonones? 
To  heap  perdition  on  thy  guilty  soul? 
There  needs  not  this  to  urge  me  to  revenge — 
But  let  me  view  this  wonder  of  mankind, 
Whose  breath  can  set  the  bustling  world  in  arms. 
I  see  no  dreadful  terrors  in  his  eye, 
Nor  gathers  chilly  fears  around  my  heart, 
Nor  strains  my  gazing  eye  with  admiration, 
And,  tho'  a  woman,  I  can  strike  the  blow. 

ARSACES. 

Why  gaze  you  on  me  thus?  why  hesitate? 
Am  I  to  die? 

QUEEN. 

Thou  art — this  dagger  shall 
Dissolve  thy  life,  thy  fleeting  ghost  I'll  send 
To  wait  Vonones  in  the  shades  below. 

ARSACES. 
And  even  there  I'll  triumph  over  him. 

QUEEN. 

O,  thou  vile  homicide!  thy  fatal  hand 
Has  robb'd  me  of  all  joy;  Vonones,  to 
Thy  Manes  this  proud  sacrifice  I  give. 
That  hand  which  sever'd  the  friendship  of  thy 
Soul  and  body,  shall  never  draw  again 
Imbitt'ring  tears  from  sorr'wing  mother's  eyes. 
This,  with  the  many  tears  I've  shed,  receive — 

[Offers  to  stab  him. 
Ha! — I'd  strike;  what  holds  my  hand? — 'tis  n't  pity. 

ARSACES. 

Nay,  do  not  mock  me,  with  the  shew  of  death, 
And  yet  deny  the  blessing;   I  have  met 
Your  taunts  with  equal  taunts,  in  hopes  to  urge 
The  blow  with  swift  revenge;  but  since  that  fails, 
I'll  woo  thee  to  compliance,  teach  my  tongue 
Persuasion's  winning  arts,  to  gain  thy  soul; 
I'll  praise  thy  clemency,  in  dying  accents 
Bless  thee  for,  this,  thy  charitable  deed. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  89 

Oh!  do  not  stand;  see,  how  my  bosom  heaves 
To  meet  the  stroke;  in  pity  let  me  die, 
Tis  all  the  happiness  I  now  can  know. 

QUEEN. 

How  sweet  the  eloquence  of  dying  men ! 
Hence  Poets  feign'd  the  music  of  the  Swan, 
When  death  upon  her  lays  his  icy  hand, 
She  melts  away  in  melancholy  strains. 

ARSACES. 

Play  not  thus  cruel  with  my  poor  request, 
But  take  my  loving  Father's  thanks,  and  mine. 

QUEEN. 

Thy  Father  cannot  thank  me  now. 
ARSACES. 

He  will, 

Believe  me,  e'en  whilst  dissolv'd  in  ecstacy 
On  fond  Evanthe's  bosom,  he  will  pause, 
One  moment  from  his  joys,  to  bless  the  deed. 

QUEEN. 

What  means  this  tumult  in  my  breast?  from  whence 
Proceeds  this  sudden  change?  my  heart  beats  high, 
And  soft  compassion  makes  me  less  than  woman: 
I'll  search  no  more  for  what  I  fear  to  know. 

ARSACES. 

Why  drops  the  dagger  from  thy  trembling  hand? 
Oh!  yet  be  kind— 

QUEEN. 

No:  now  I'd  have  thee  live, 
Since  it  is  happiness  to  die:  'Tis  pain 
That  I  would  give  thee,  thus  I  bid  thee  live; 
Yes,  I  would  have  thee  a  whole  age  a  dying, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  ling'ring  agonies. 
All  day  I'd  watch  thee,  mark  each  heigh ten'd  pang, 
While  springing  joy  should  swell  my  panting  bosom; 
This  I  would  have — But  should  this  dagger  give 
Thy  soul  the  liberty  it  fondly  wishes, 
'Twould  soar  aloft,  and  mock  my  faint  revenge. 


\, 


9°  Representative  Plays 

ARSACES. 

This  mildness  shews  most  foul,  thy  anger  lovely. 
Think  that  'twas  I  who  blasted  thy  fond  hope, 
Vonones  now  lies  number'd  with  the  dead, 
And  all  your  joys  are  buried  in  his  grave; 
My  hand  untimely  pluck'd  the  precious  flow'r, 
Before  its  shining  beauties  were  display'd. 

QUEEN. 

0  Woman!  Woman!  where's  thy  resolution? 

Where's  thy  revenge?    Where's  all  thy  hopes  of  vengeance? 
Giv'n  to  the  winds — Ha!  is  it  pity? — No — 

1  fear  it  wears  another  softer  name. 

I'll  think  no  more,  but  rush  to  my  revenge, 
In  spite  of  foolish  fear,  or  woman's  softness; 
Be  steady  now  my  soul  to  thy  resolves. 
Yes,  thou  shalt  die,  thus,  on  thy  breast,  I  write 
Thy  instant  doom — ha ! — ye  Gods ! 

[QuEEN  starts,  as,  in  great  fright,  at  hearing  something. 

ARSACES. 

Why  this  pause? 

Why  dost  thou  idly  stand  like  imag'd  vengeance, 
With  harmless  terrors  threatning  on  thy  brow, 
With  lifted  arm,  yet  canst  not  strike  the  blow? 

QUEEN. 

It  surely  was  the  Echo  to  my  fears, 
The  whistling  wind,  perhaps,  which  mimick'd  voice; 
But  thrice  methought  it  loudly  cry'd,  "Forbear." 
Imagination  hence — I'll  heed  thee  not — 

[Ghost  of  ARTABANUS  rises. 
Save  me — oh! — save  me — ye  eternal  pow'rs! — 
See! — see  it  comes,  surrounded  with  dread  terrors — 
Hence — hence !  nor  blast  me  with  that  horrid  sight — 
Throw  off  that  shape,  and  search  th'  infernal  rounds 
For  horrid  forms,  there's  none  can  shock  like  thine. 

GHOST. 

No;   I  will  ever  wear  this  form,  thus  e'er 
Appear  before  thee;  glare  upon  thee  thus, 
'Til  desperation,  join'd  to  thy  damn'd  crime, 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  91 

Shall  wind  thee  to  the  utmost  height  of  frenzy. 

In  vain  you  grasp  the  dagger  in  your  hand, 

In  vain  you  dress  your  brows  in  angry  frowns, 

In  vain  you  raise  your  threatning  arm  in  air, 

Secure,  Arsaces  triumphs  o'er  your  rage. 

Guarded  by  fate,  from  thy  accurs'd  revenge, 

Thou  canst  not  touch  his  life;   the  Gods  have  giv'n 

A  softness  to  thy  more  than  savage  soul 

Before  unknown,  to  aid  their  grand  designs. 

Fate  yet  is  lab'ring  with  some  great  event, 

But  what  must  follow  I'm  forbid  to  broach — 

Think,  think  of  me,  I  sink  to  rise  again, 

To  play  in  blood  before  thy  aching  sight, 

And  shock  thy  guilty  soul  with  hell-born  horrors — 

Think,  think  of  Artabanus !  and  despair —  [Sinks. 

QUEEN. 

Think  of  thee,  and  despair? — yes,  I'll  despair — 
Yet  stay, — oh !  stay,  thou  messenger  of  fate ! 
Tell  me — Ha!  'tis  gone — and  left  me  wretched — 

ARSACES. 

Your  eyes  seem  fix'd  upon  some  dreadful  object, 
Horror  and  anguish  clothe  your  whiten'd  face, 
And  your  frame  shakes  with  terror ;   I  hear  you  speak 
As  seeming  earnest  in  discourse,  yet  hear 
No  second  voice. 

QUEEN. 
W7hat!  saw'st  thou  nothing? 

ARSACES. 
Nothing. 

QUEEN. 
Nor  hear'd?— 

ARSACES. 
Nor  Hear'd. 

QUEEN. 

Amazing  spectacle! — 

Cold  moist' ning  dews  distil  from  ev'ry  pore, 
I  tremble  like  to  palsied  age — Ye  Gods! 
Would  I  could  leave  this  loath'd  detested  being! — 
Oh !  all  my  brain's  on  fire — I  rave !  I  rave ! —     [Ghost  rises  again. 


92  Representative  Plays 

Ha!  it  comes  again — see,  it  glides  along — 

See,  see,  what  streams  of  blood  flow  from  its  wounds! 

A  crimson  torrent — Shield  me,  oh !  shield  me,  heav'n. — 

ARSACES. 
Great,  and  righteous  Gods! — 

QUEEN. 

Ah !  frown  not  on  me — 

Why  dost  thou  shake  thy  horrid  locks  at  me? 
Can  I  give  immortality? — 'tis  gone —  [Ghost  sinks. 

It  flies  me,  see,  ah! — stop  it,  stop  it,  haste — 

ARSACES. 
Oh,  piteous  sight! — 

QUEEN. 

Hist!  prithee,  hist!  oh  death! 
I'm  all  on  fire — now  freezing  bolts  of  ice 
Dart  thro'  my  breast — Oh!  burst  ye  cords  of  life — 
Ha!  who  are  ye? — Why  do  ye  stare  upon  me? — 
Oh ! — defend  me,  from  these  bick'ring  Furies ! 

ARSACES. 
Alas!  her  sense  is  lost,  distressful  Queen! 

QUEEN. 

Help  me,  thou  King  of  Gods!  oh!  help  me!  help! — 
See!  they  envir'n  me  round — Vonones  too, 
The  foremost  leading  on  the  dreadful  troop — 
But  there,  Vardanes  beck'ns  me  to  shun 
Their  hellish  rage — I  come,  I  come! 
Ah !  they  pursue  me,  with  a  scourge  of  fire. — 

[Runs  out  distracted. 

SCENE  VI. 
ARSACES  [alone]. 

Oh! — horror! — on  the  ground  she  breathless  lies, 
Silent,  in  death's  cold  sleep;   the  wall  besmear'd 
WithJbraips  gnH  gnrp,  tfip  marks  of  her  despair. 
O  guilt!  how  dreadful  dost  thou  ever  shew! 
How  lovely  are  the  charms  of  innocence! 
How  beauteous  tho'  in  sorrows  and  distress! — 
Ha! — what  noise? —  [Clashing  of  swords. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  93 

SCENE  VII. 

ARSACES,  BARZAPHERNES  and  GOTARZES. 
BARZAPHERNES. 
At  length  we've  forc'd  our  entrance — 

0  my  lov'd  Prince!  to  see  thee  thus,  indeed, 
Melts  e'en  me  to  a  woman's  softness;  see 
My  eyes  o'erflow — Are  these  the  ornaments 
For  Royal  hands?  rude  manacles !  oh  shameful ! 
Is  this  thy  room  of  state,  this  gloomy  goal? 
Without  attendance,  and  thy  bed  the  pavement? 
But,  ah!  how  diff'rent  was  our  parting  last! 

When  flush'd  with  vict'ry,  reeking  from  the  slaughter, 
You  saw  Arabia's  Sons  scour  o'er  the  plain 
In  shameful  flight,  before  your  conqu'ring  sword; 
Then  shone  you  like  the  God  of  battle. 
ARSACES. 

Welcome ! 

Welcome,  my  loyal  friends!  Barzaphernes ! 
My  good  old  soldier,  to  my  bosom  thus! 
Gotarzes,  my  lov'd  Brother!  now  I'm  happy. — 
But,  say,  my  soldier,  why  these  threatning  arms? 
Why  am  I  thus  releas'd  by  force?  my  Father, 

1  should  have  said  the  King,  had  he  relented, 
He'd  not  have  us'd  this  method  to  enlarge  me. 
Alas!  I  fear,  too  forward  in  your  love, 

You'll  brand  me  with  the  rebel's  hated  name. 

BARZAPHERNES. 

I  am  by  nature  blunt — the  soldier's  manner. 
Unus'd  to  the  soft  arts  practis'd  at  courts. 
Nor  can  I  move  the  passions,  or  disguise 
The  sorr'wing  tale  to  mitigate  the  smart. 
Then  seek  it  not:   I  would  sound  the  alarm, 
Loud  as  the  trumpet's  clangour,  in  your  ears; 
Nor  will  I  hail  you,  as  our  Parthia's  King, 
'Til  you've  full  reveng'd  your  Father's  murther. 

ARSACES. 
Murther? — good  heav'n! 

BARZAPHERNES. 

The  tale  requires  some  time; 
And  opportunity  must  not  be  lost; 


94  Representative  Plays 

Your  traitor  Brother,  who  usurps  your  rights, 

Must,  ere  his  faction  gathers  to  a  head, 

Have  from  his  brows  his  new-born  honours  torn. 

ARSACES. 

What,  dost  thou  say,  murther'd  by  Vardanes? 
Impious  parricide! — detested  villain! — 
Give  me  a  sword,  and  onward  to  the  charge, 
Stop  gushing  tears,  for  I  will  weep  in  blood, 
And  sorrow  with  the  groans  of  dying  men. — 
Revenge!  revenge! — oh! — all  my  soul's  on  fire! 

GOTARZES. 

'Twas  not  Vardanes  struck  the  fatal  blow, 
Though,  great  in  pow'r  usurp'd,  he  dares  support 
The  actor,  vengeful  Lysias;  to  his  breast 
He  clasps,  with  grateful  joy,  the  bloody  villain; 
Who  soon  meant,  with  ruffian  wiles,  to  cut 
You  from  the  earth,  and  also  me. 

ARSACES. 

Just  heav'ns! — 

But,  gentle  Brother,  how  didst  thou  elude 
The  vigilant,  suspicious,  tyrant's  craft? 

GOTARZES. 

Phraates,  by  an  accident,  obtain'd 
The  knowledge  of  the  deed,  and  warn'd  by  him 
I  bent  my  flight  toward  the  camp,  to  seek 
Protection  and  revenge;  but  scarce  I'd  left 
The  city  when  I  o'ertook  the  Gen'ral. 

BARZAPHERNES. 

Ere  the  sun  'rose  I  gain'd  th'  intelligence: 
The  soldiers  when  they  heard  the  dreadful  tale, 
First  stood  aghast,  and  motionless  with  horror. 
Then  suddenly,  inspir'd  with  noble  rage, 
Tore  up  their  ensigns,  calling  on  their  leaders 
To  march  them  to  the  city  instantly. 
I,  with  some  trusty  few,  with  speed  came  forward, 
To  raise  our  friends  within,  and  gain  your  freedom. 
Nor  hazard  longer,  by  delays,  your  safety. 
Already  faithful  Phraates  has  gain'd 
A  num'rous  party  of  the  citizens; 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  95 

With  these  we  mean  t'  attack  the  Royal  Palace, 
Crush  the  bold  tyrant  with  surprise,  while  sunk 
In  false  security;  and  vengeance  wreck, 
Ere  that  he  thinks  the  impious  crime  be  known. 

ARSACES. 

O!  parent  being,  Ruler  of  yon  heav'n! 
Who  bade  creation  spring  to  order,  hear  me. 
What  ever  sins  are  laid  upon  my  soul, 
Now  let  them  not  prove  heavy  on  this  day, 
To  sink  my  arm,  or  violate  my  cause. 
The  sacred  rights  of  Kings,  my  Country's  wrongs, 
The  punishment  of  fierce  impiety, 
And  a  lov'd  Father's  death,  call  forth  my  sword. — 

Now  on ;  I  feel  all  calm  within  my  breast, 
And  ev'ry  busy  doubt  is  hush'd  to  rest; 
Smile  heav'n  propitious  on  my  virtuous  cause, 
Nor  aid  the  wretch  who  dares  disdain  your  laws. 
End  of  the  Fourth  Act. 

ACT  V. 
SCENE  I.  The  Palace. 

The  Curtain  rises,  slowly,  to  soft  music,  and  discovers  EVANTHE 
sleeping  on  a  sofa;  after  the  music  ceases,  VARDANES  enters. 

VARDANES. 

Now  shining  Empire  standing  at  the  goal, 
Beck'ns  me  forward  to  increase  my  speed; 
But,  yet,  Arsaces  lives,  bane  to  my  hopes, 
Lysias  I'll  urge  to  ease  me  of  his  life, 
Then  give  the  villain  up  to  punishment. 
The  shew  of  justice  gains  the  changeling  croud, 
Besides,  I  ne'er  will  harbour  in  my  bosom 
Such  serpents,  ever  ready  with  their  stings — 
But  now  one  hour  for  love  and  fair  Evanthe — 
Hence  with  ambition's  cares — see,  where  reclin'd, 
In  slumbers  all  her  sorrows  are  dismiss'd, 
Sleep  seems  to  heighten  ev'ry  beauteous  feature, 
And  adds  peculiar  softness  to  each  grace. 
She  weeps — in  dreams  some  lively  sorrow  pains  her — 
I'll  take  one  kiss — oh!  what  a  balmy  sweetness! 


96  Representative  Plays 

Give  me  another — and  another  still — 

For  ever  thus  I'd  dwell  upon  her  lips. 

Be  still  my  heart,  and  calm  unruly  transports. — 

Wake  her,  with  music,  from  this  mimic  death. 

[Music  sounds. 
SONG. 
Tell  me,  Phillis,  tell  me  why, 

You  appear  so  wond'rous  coy, 
When  that  glow,  and  sparkling  eye, 
Speak  you  want  to  taste  the  joy? 
Prithee,  give  this  fooling  o'er, 
Nor  torment  your  lover  more. 

While  youth  is  warm  within  our  veins, 

And  nature  tempts  us  to  be  gay, 
Give  to  pleasure  loose  the  reins, 

Love  and  youth  fly  swift  away. 
Youth  in  pleasure  should  be  spent, 
Age  will  come,  we'll  then  repent. 

EVANTHE  [waking]. 

I  come,  ye  lovely  shades — Ha!  am  I  here? 
Still  in  the  tyrant's  palace?  Ye  bright  pow'rs! 
Are  all  my  blessings  then  but  vis'onary? 
Methought  I  was  arriv'd  on  that  blest  shore 
Where  happy  souls  for  ever  dwell,  crown'd  with 
Immortal  bliss;  Arsaces  led  me  through 
The  flow'ry  groves,  while  all  around  me  gleam'd 
Thousand  and  thousand  shades,  who  welcom'd  me 
With  pleasing  songs  of  joy — Vardanes,  ha! — 

VARDANES. 

Why  beams  the  angry  lightning  of  thine  eye 
Against  thy  sighing  slave?   Is  love  a  crime? 
Oh !  if  to  dote,  with  such  excess  of  passion 
As  rises  e'en  to  mad  extravagance 
Is  criminal,  I  then  am  so,  indeed. 

EVANTHE. 
Away!  vile  man! — 

VARDANES. 

If  to  pursue  thee  e'er 
With  all  the  humblest  offices  of  love, 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  97 

If  ne'er  to  know  one  single  thought  that  does 
Not  bear  thy  bright  idea,  merits  scorn — 

EVANTHE. 

Hence  from  my  sight — nor  let  me,  thus,  pollute 
Mine  eyes,  with  looking  on  a  wretch  like  thee, 
Thou  cause  of  all  my  ills;  I  sicken  at 
Thy  loathsome  presence — 

VARDANES. 

'Tis  not  always  thus, 

Nor  dost  thou  ever  meet  the  sounds  of  love 
With  rage  and  fierce  disdain:  Arsaces,  soon, 
Could  smooth  thy  brow,  and  melt  thy  icy  breast. 

EVANTHE. 

Ha!  does  it  gall  thee?    Yes,  he  could,  he  could; 
Oh !  when  he  speaks,  such  sweetness  dwells  upon 
His  accents,  all  my  soul  dissolves  to  love, 
And  warm  desire;  such  truth  and  beauty  join'd! 
His  looks  are  soft  and  kind,  such  gentleness 
Such  virtue  swells  his  bosom !  in  his  eye 
Sits  majesty,  commanding  ev'ry  heart. 
Strait  as  the  pine,  the  pride  of  all  the  grove, 
More  blooming  than  the  spring,  and  sweeter  far, 
Than  asphodels  or  roses  infant  sweets. 
Oh !  I  could  dwell  forever  on  his  praise, 
Yet  think  eternity  was  scarce  enough 
To  tell  the  mighty  theme;  here  in  my  breast 
His  image  dwells,  but  one  dear  thought  of  him, 
When  fancy  paints  his  Person  to  my  eye, 
As  he  was  wont  in  tenderness  dissolv'd, 
Sighing  his  vows,  or  kneeling  at  my  feet, 
Wipes  off  all  mem'ry  of  my  wretchedness. 

VARDANES. 

I  know  this  brav'ry  is  affected,  yet 
It  gives  me  joy,  to  think  my  rival  only 
Can  in  imagination  taste  thy  beauties. 
Let  him, — 'twill  ease  him  in  his  solitude, 
And  gild  the  horrors  of  his  prison-house, 
Till  death  shall— 


98  Representative  Plays 

EVANTHE. 

Ha!  what  was  that?  till  death — ye  Gods! 
Ah,  now  I  feel  distress's  tort'ring  pang — 
Thou  canst  not,  villain — darst  not  think  his  death — 
O  mis'ry! — 

VARDANES. 

Naught  but  your  kindness  saves  him, 
Yet  bless  me,  with  your  love,  and  he  is  safe ; 
But  the  same  frown  which  kills  my  growing  hopes, 
Gives  him  to  death. 

EVANTHE. 

O  horror,  I  could  die 

Ten  thousand  times  to  save  the  lov'd  Arsaces. 
Teach  me  the  means,  ye  pow'rs,  how  to  save  him: 
Then  lead  me  to  what  ever  is  my  fate. 

VARDANES. 

Not  only  shall  he  die,  but  to  thy  view 
I'll  bring  the  scene,  those  eyes  that  take  delight 
In  cruelty,  shall  have  enough  of  death. 
E'en  here,  before  thy  sight,  he  shall  expire, 
Not  sudden,  but  by  ling'ring  torments;  all 
That  mischief  can  invent  shall  be  practis'd 
To  give  him  pain ;  to  lengthen  out  his  woe 
I'll  search  around  the  realm  for  skillful  men, 
To  find  new  tortures. 

EVANTHE. 

Oh !  wrack  not  thus  my  soul ! 

VARDANES. 

The  sex  o'erflows  with  various  humours,  he 
Who  catches  not  their  smiles  the  very  moment, 
Will  lose  the  blessing — I'll  improve  this  softness. — [Aside  to  her. 
Heav'n  never  made  thy  beauties  to  destroy, 
They  were  to  bless,  and  not  to  blast  mankind; 
Pity  should  dwell  within  thy  lovely  breast, 
That  sacred  temple  ne'er  was  form'd  for  hate 
A  habitation;  but  a  residence 
For  love  and  gaiety. 

EVANTHE. 
Oh!  heav'ns! 


The  Prince  of  Parthia 


99 


VARDANES. 

That  sigh, 
Proclaims  your  kind  consent  to  save  Arsaces. 

[Laying  hold  of  her. 
EVANTHE. 
Ha!  villain,  off — unhand  me — hence — 

VARDANES. 
In  vain 

Is  opportunity  to  those,  who  spend 
An  idle  courtship  on  the  fair,  they  well 
Deserve  their  fate,  if  they're  disdain'd ; — her  charms 
To  rush  upon,  and  conquer  opposition, 
Gains  the  Fair  one's  praise;  an  active  lover 
Suits,  who  lies  aside  the  coxcomb's  empty  whine, 
And  forces  her  to  bliss. 

EVANTHE. 

Ah !  hear  me,  hear  me, 

Thus  kneeling,  with  my  tears,  I  do  implore  thee: 
Think  on  my  innocence,  nor  force  a  joy 
Which  will  ever  fill  thy  soul  with  anguish. 
Seek  not  to  load  my  ills  with  infamy, 
Let  me  not  be  a  mark  for  bitter  scorn, 
To  bear  proud  virtue's  taunts  and  mocking  jeers, 
And  like  a  flow'r,  of  all  its  sweetness  robb'd, 
Be  trod  to  earth,  neglected  and  disdain'd, 
And  spurn'd  by  ev'ry  vulgar  saucy  foot. 

VARDANES. 

Speak,  speak  forever — music's  in  thy  voice, 
Still  attentive  will  I  listen  to  thee, 
Be  hush'd  as  night,  charm'd  with  the  magic  sound. 

,  EVANTHE. 

Oh !  teach  me,  heav'n,  soft  moving  eloquence, 
To  bend  his  stubborn  soul  to  gentleness. — 
Where  is  thy  virtue?  Where  thy  princely  lustre? 
Ah !  wilt  thou  meanly  stoop  to  do  a  wrong, 
And  stain  thy  honour  with  so  foul  a  blot? 
Thou  who  shouldst  be  a  guard  to  innocence. 
Leave  force  to  brutes — for  pleasure  is  not  found 
Where  still  the  soul's  averse;  horror  and  guilt, 
Distraction,  desperation  chace  her  hence. 


ioo  Representative  Plays 

Some  happier  gentle  Fair  one  you  may  find, 
Whose  yielding  heart  may  bend  to  meet  your  flame, 
In  mutual  love  soft  joys  alone  are  found; 
When  souls  are  drawn  by  secret  sympathy, 
And  virtue  does  on  virtue  smile. 

VARDANES. 

No  more — 

Her  heav'nly  tongue  will  charm  me  from  th'  intent— 
Hence  coward  softness,  force  shall  make  me  blest. 

EVANTHE. 

Assist  me,  ye  bless't  pow'rs! — oh!  strike,  ye  Gods! 
Strike  me,  with  thunder  dead,  this  moment,  e'er 
I  suffer  violation — 

VARDANES. 

Tis  in  vain, 

The  idle  pray'rs  by  fancy'd  grief  put  up, 
Are  blown  by  active  winds  regardless  by, 
Nor  ever  reach  the  heav'ns. 

SCENE  II. 
VARDANES,  EVANTHE  and  LYSIAS. 

LYSIAS. 
Arm,  arm,  my  Lord! — 

/  VARDANES. 

*          jDamnation !  why  this  interruption  now?— 

LYSIAS. 

Oh!  arm!  my  noble  Prince,  the  foe's  upon  us. 
Arsaces,  by  Barzaphernes  releas'd, 
Join'd  with  the  citizens,  assaults  the  Palace, 
And  swears  revenge  for  Artabanus'  death. 

VARDANES. 

Ha!  what?  revenge  for  Artabanus'  death? — 
'Tis  the  curse  of  Princes  that  their  counsels, 
Which  should  be  kept  like  holy  mysteries, 
Can  never  rest  in  silent  secrecy. 
Fond  of  employ,  some  cursed  tattling  tongue 
Will  still  divulge  them. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  101 

LYSIAS. 

Sure  some  fiend  from  hell, 
In  mischief  eminent,  to  cross  our  views, 
Has  giv'n  th'  intelligence,  for  man  could  not. 

EVANTHE. 

Oh!  ever  blest  event! — All-gracious  heav'n! 
This  beam  of  joy  revives  me. 

SCENE  III. 
VARDANES,  EVANTHE,  LYSIAS,  to  them,  an  OFFICER. 

OFFICER. 

Haste!  my  Lord! 

Or  all  will  soon  be  lost;   tho'  thrice  repuls'd 
By  your  e'erfaithful  guards,  they  still  return 
With  double  fury. 

VARDANES. 

Hence,  then,  idle  love — 

Come  forth,  my  trusty  sword — curs'd  misfortune! — 
Had  I  but  one  short  hour,  without  reluctance, 
I'd  meet  them,  tho'  they  brib'd  the  pow'rs  of  hell, 
To  place  their  furies  in  the  van:  Yea,  rush 
To  meet  this  dreadful  Brother  'midst  the  war — 
Haste  to  the  combat — Now  a  crown  or  death — 
The  wretch  who  dares  to  give  an  inch  of  ground 
Till  I  retire,  shall  meet  the  death  he  shun'd. 
Away — away!  delays  are  dang'rous  now — 

SCENE  IV. 
EVANTHE  [alone]. 

Now  heav'n  be  partial  to  Arsaces'  cause, 
Nor  leave  to  giddy  chance  when  virtue  strives; 
Let  victory  sit  on  his  warlike  helm, 
For  justice  draws  his  sword:  be  thou  his  aid, 
And  let  the  opposer's  arm  sink  with  the  weight 
Of  his  most  impious  crimes — be  still  my  heart, 
For  all  that  thou  canst  aid  him  with  is  pray'r. 
Oh!  that  I  had  the  strength  of  thousands  in  me! 
Or  that  my  voice  could  wake  the  sons  of  men 
To  join,  and  crush  the  tyrant! — 


IO2  Representative  Plays 

SCENE  V. 
EVANTHE  and  CLEONE. 

EVANTHE. 

My  Cleone — 
Welcome  thou  partner  of  my  joys  and  sorrows. 

CLEONE. 

Oh!  yonder  terror  triumphs  uncontroul'd,' 
And  glutton  death  seems  never  satisfy'd. 
Each  soft  sensation  lost  in  thoughtless  rage, 
And  breast  to  breast,  oppos'd  in  furious  war, 
The  fiery  Chiefs  receive  the  vengeful  steel. 
O'er  lifeless  heaps  of  men  the  soldiers  climb 
Still  eager  for  the  combat,  while  the  ground 
Made  slipp'ry  by  the  gushing  streams  of  gore 
Is  treach'rous  to  their  feet. — Oh!  horrid  sight! — 
Too  much  for  me  to  stand,  my  life  was  chill'd, 
As  from  the  turret  I  beheld  the  fight, 
It  forc'd  me  to  retire. 

EVANTHE. 

What  of  Arsaces? 

CLEONE. 

I  saw  him  active  in  the  battle,  now, 
Like  light'ning,  piercing  thro'  the  thickest  foe, 
Then  scorning  to  disgrace  his  sword  in  low 
Plebeian  blood — loud  for  Vardanes  call'd — 
To  meet  him  singly,  and  decide  the  war. 

EVANTHE. 

Save  him,  ye  Gods! — oh!  all  my  soul  is  fear — 
Fly,  fly  Cleone,  to  the  tow'r  again, 
See  how  fate  turns  the  ballance;  and  pursue 
Arsaces  with  thine  eye ;  mark  ev'ry  blow, 
Observe  if  some  bold  villain  dares  to  urge 
His  sword  presumptuous  at  my  Hero's  breast. 
Haste,  my  Cleone,  haste,  to  ease  my  fears. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  103 

SCENE  VI. 

EVANTHE  [alone]. 

Ah! — what  a  cruel  torment  is  suspense! 
My  anxious  soul  is  torn  'twixt  love  and  fear, 
Scarce  can  I  please  me  with  one  fancied  bliss 
Which  kind  imagination  forms,  but  reason, 
Proud,  surly  reason,  snatches  the  vain  joy, 
And  gives  me  up  again  to  sad  distress. 
Yet  I  can  die,  and  should  Arsaces  fall 
This  fatal  draught  shall  ease  me  of  my  sorrows. 

SCENE  VII. 

CLEONE  [alone]. 

Oh!  horror!  horror!  horror! — cruel  Gods! — 
I  saw  him  fall — I  did —  pierc'd  thro'  with  wounds — 
Curs'd!  curs'd  Vardanes! — hear'd  the  gen'ral  cry, 
Which  burst,  as  tho'  all  nature  had  dissolv'd. 
Hark!  how  they  shout!  the  noise  seems  coming  this  way. 

SCENE  VIII. 

ARSACES,  GOTARZES,  BARZAPHERNES  and  OFFICERS,  with 
VARDANES  and  LYSIAS,  prisoners. 

ARSACES. 

Thanks  to  the  ruling  pow'rs  who  blest  our  arms, 
Prepare  the  sacrifices  to  the  Gods, 
And  grateful  songs  of  tributary  praise. — 
Gotarzes,  fly,  my  Brother,  find  Evanthe, 
And  bring  the  lovely  mourner  to  my  arms. 

GOTARZES. 
Yes,  I'll  obey  you,  with  a  willing  speed.  [Exit  GOTARZES. 

ARSACES. 

Thou,  Lysias,  from  yon  tow'r's  aspiring  height 
Be  hurl'd  to  death,  thy  impious  hands  are  stain'd 
With  royal  blood — Let  the  traitor's  body 
Be  giv'n  to  hungry  dogs. 


IO4  Representative  Plays 

LYSIAS. 

Welcome,  grim  death! — 

I've  fed  thy  maw  with  Kings,  and  lack  no  more 
Revenge — Now,  do  thy  duty,  Officer. 

OFFICER. 

Yea,  and  would  lead  all  traitors  gladly  thus, — 
The  boon  of  their  deserts. 

SCENE  IX. 
ARSACES,  VARDANES,  BARZAPHERNES. 

ARSACES. 

But  for  Vardanes, 
The  Brother's  name  forgot — 

VARDANES. 

You  need  no  more, 

I  know  the  rest — Ah!  death  is  near,  my  wounds 
Permit  me  not  to  live — my  breath  grows  short, 
Curs'd  be  Phraates'  arm  which  stop'd  my  sword, 
Ere  it  had  reach'd  thy  proud  exulting  heart. 
But  the  wretch  paid  dear  for  his  presuming; 
A  just  reward. — 

ARSACES. 

He  sinks,  yet  bear  him  up — 

VARDANES. 

Curs'd  be  the  multitude  which  o'erpowVd  me, 
And  beat  me  to  the  ground,  cover'd  with  wounds — 
But,  oh!  'tis  done!  my  ebbing  life  is  done — 
I  feel  death's  hand  upon  me — Yet,  I  die 
Just  as  I  wish,  and  daring  for  a  crown, 
Life  without  rule  is  my  disdain;  I  scorn 
To  swell  a  haughty  Brother's  sneaking  train, 
To  wait  upon  his  ear  with  flatt'ring  tales, 
And  court  his  smiles;  come,  death,  in  thy  cold  arms, 
Let  me  forget  Ambition's  mighty  toil, 
And  shun  the  triumphs  of  a  hated  Brother — 
O !  bear  me  off —  Let  not  his  eyes  enjoy 
My  agonies — My  sight  grows  dim  with  death. 

[They  bear  him  off. 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  105 

SCENE  (the  Last}. 
ARSACES,  GOTARZES,  BARZAPHERNES,  and  EVANTHE  supported. 

EVANTHE. 

Lead  me,  oh !  lead  me,  to  my  lov'd  Arsaces. 
Where  is  he? — 

ARSACES. 
Ha!  what's  this? — Just  heav'ns! — my  fears — 

EVANTHE. 

Arsaces,  oh!  thus  circl'd  in  thy  arms, 
I  die  without  a  pang. 

ARSACES. 

Ha!  die? — why  stare  ye, 
Ye  lifeless  ghosts?  Have  none  of  ye  a  tongue 
To  tell  me  I'm  undone? 

GOTARZES.  A  AjJ) 

Soon,  my  Brother,  ^ 

Too  soon,  you'll  know  it  by  the  sad  effects; 
And  if  my  grief  will  yet  permit  my  tongue 
To  do  its  office,  thou  shalt  hear  the  tale. 
Cleone,  from  the  turret,  view'd  the  battle, 
And  on  Phraates  fix'd  her  erring  sight, 
Thy  brave  unhappy  friend  she  took  for  thee, 
By  his  garb  deceiv'd,  which  like  to  thine  he  wore. 
Still  with  her  eye  she  follow'd  him,  where  e'er 
He  pierc'd  the  foe,  and  to  Vardanes'  sword 
She  saw  him  fall  a  hapless  victim,  then, 
In  agonies  of  grief,  flew  to  Evanthe, 
And  told  the  dreadful  tale — the  fatal  bowl 
I  saw — 

ARSACES. 

Be  dumb,  nor  ever  give  again 
Fear  to  the  heart,  with  thy  ill-boding  voice. 

EVANTHE. 

Here,  I'll  rest,  till  death,  on  thy  lov'd  bosom, 
Here  let  me  sigh  my — Oh !  the  poison  works — 

ARSACES. 
Oh!  horror!— 


io6  Representative  Plays 

EVANTHE. 

Cease — this  sorrow  pains  me  more 
Than  all  the  wringing  agonies  of  death, 
The  dreadful  parting  of  the  soul  from,  this, 
Its  wedded  clay — Ah!  there — that  pang  shot  thro' 
My  throbbing  heart — 

ARSACES. 

Save  her,  ye  Gods! — oh!  save  her! 
And  I  will  bribe  ye  with  clouds  of  incense; 
Such  num'rous  sacrifices,  that  your  altars 
Shall  even  sink  beneath  the  mighty  load. 

EVANTHE. 

When  I  am  dead,  dissolv'd  to  native  dust, 
Yet  let  me  live  in  thy  dear  mem'ry — 
One  tear  will  not  be  much  to  give  Evanthe. 

ARSACES. 

My  eyes  shall  e'er  two  running  fountains  be, 
And  wet  thy  urn  with  everflowing  tears, 
Joy  ne'er  again  within  my  breast  shall  find 
A  residence — Oh!  speak,  once  more — 

EVANTHE. 

Life's  just  out — 

My  Father — Oh !  protect  his  honour'd  age, 
And  give  him  shelter  from  the  storms  of  fate, 
He's  long  been  fortune's  sport — Support  me — Ah! — 
I  can  no  more — my  glass  is  spent — farewell — 
Forever — Arsaces ! — Oh !  [Dies. 

ARSACES. 

Stay,  oh!  stay, 

Or  take  me  with  thee — dead!  she's  cold  and  dead! 
Her  eyes  are  clos'd,  and  all  my  joys  are  flown — 
Now  burst  ye  elements,  from  your  restraint, 
Let  order  cease,  and  chaos  be  again. 
Break!  break,  tough  heart! — oh!  torture — life  dissolve — 
Why  stand  ye  idle?    Have  I  not  one  friend 
To  kindly  free  me  from  this  pain?  One  blow, 
One  friendly  blow  would  give  me  ease. 

BARZAPHERNES. 
The  Gods 
Forefend! — Pardon  me,  Royal  Sir,  if  I 


The  Prince  of  Parthia  107 

Dare,  seemingly  disloyal,  seize  your  sword, 
Despair  may  urge  you  far — 

ARSACES. 

Ha!  traitors!  rebels! — 
Hoary  rev'rend  Villain!  what,  disarm  me? 
Give  me  my  sword — what,  stand  ye  by,  and  see 
Your  Prince  insulted?  Are  ye  rebels  all? — 
BARZAPHERNES. 

Be  calm,  my  gracious  Lord ! 
GOTARZES. 

Oh!  my  lov'd  Brother! 
ARSACES. 

Gotarzes  too!  all!  all!  conspir'd  against  me? 
Still,  are  ye  all  resolv'd  that  I  must  live, 
And  feel  the  momentary  pangs  of  death? — 
Ha! — this,  shall  make  a  passage  for  my  soul — 

[Snatches  BARZAPHERNES'  sword. 

Out,  out  vile  cares,  from  your  distress'd  abode —   [Stabs  himself. 
BARZAPHERNES. 

Oh!  ye  eternal  Gods! 
GOTARZES. 

Distraction!  heav'ns! 
I  shall  run  mad — 

ARSACES. 

Ah!  'tis  in  vain  to  grieve — 
The  steel  has  done  its  part,  and  I'm  at  rest. — 
Gotarzes,  wear  my  crown,  and  be  thou  blest, 
Cherish,  Barzaphernes,  my  trusty  chief — 
I  faint,  oh!  lay  me  by  Evanthe's  side — 
Still  wedded  in  our  deaths — Bethas — 
BARZAPHERNES. 

Despair, 

My  Lord,  has  broke  his  heart,  I  saw  him  stretch'd, 
Along  the  flinty  pavement,  in  his  gaol — 
Cold,  lifeless — 

ARSACES. 

He's  happy  then — had  he  heard 
This  tale,  he'd — Ah !  Evanthe  chides  my  soul. 
For  ling'ring  here  so  long — another  pang 
And  all  the  world,  adieu — oh !  adieu ! —  [Dies. 


io8  Representative  Plays 

GOTARZES. 
Oh! 

Fix  me,  heav'n,  immoveable,  a  statue, 

And  free  me  from  o'erwhelming  tides  of  grief. 

BARZAPHERNES. 

Oh!  my  lov'd  Prince,  I  soon  shall  follow  thee; 
Thy  laurel'd  glories  whither  are  they  fled? — 
Would  I  had  died  before  this  fatal  day! — 
Triumphant  garlands  pride  my  soul  no  more, 
No  more  the  lofty  voice  of  war  can  charm — 
And  why  then  am  I  here?  Thus  then — 

[Offers  to  stab  himself. 
GOTARZES. 

Ah!  hold, 

Nor  rashly  urge  the  blow — think  of  me,  and 
Live — My  heart  is  wrung  with  streaming  anguish, 
Tore  with  the  smarting  pangs  of  woe,  yet,  will  I 
Dare  to  live,  and  stem  misfortune's  billows. 
Live  then,  and  be  the  guardian  of  my  youth, 
And  lead  me  on  thro'  virtue's  rugged  path. 

BARZAPHERNES. 

O,  glorious  youth,  thy  words  have  rous'd  the 
Drooping  genius  of  my  soul ;   thus,  let  me 
Clasp  thee,  in  my  aged  arms;  yes,  I  will  live — 
Live,  to  support  thee  in  thy  kingly  rights, 
And  when  thou  'rt  firmly  fix'd,  my  task's  perform'd, 
My  honourable  task — Then  I'll  retire, 
Petition  gracious  heav'n  to  bless  my  work, 
And  in  the  silent  grave  forget  my  cares. 

GOTARZES. 

Now,  to  the  Temple,  let  us  onward  move, 
And  strive  t'  appease  the  angry  pow'rs  above. 
Fate  yet  may  have  some  ills  reserv'd  in  store, 
Continu'd  curses,  to  torment  us  more. 
Tho',  in  their  district,  Monarchs  rule  alone, 
Jove  sways  the  mighty  Monarch  on  his  throne: 
Nor  can  the  shining  honours  which  they  wear, 
Purchase  one  joy,  or  save  them  from  one  care. 

Finis. 


PONTEACH 
By  ROBERT  ROGERS 


MAJOR  ROBERT  ROGERS 


MAJOR  ROBERT  ROGERS 

(1727-1795) 

Robert  Rogers,  a  soldier  of  fortune,  is  the  Davy  Crockett  of 
Colonial  times.  Born  at  Dumbarton,  New  Hampshire,  on 
November  I7th  (some  authorities  say  1730,  another  1731,  while 
the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography  says  1727),  he  was  the  son 
of  James  Rogers,  a  farmer  living  in  a  frontier  cabin  at  Methuen1 
in  upper  Massachusetts. 

Robert's  boyhood  was  spent  in  an  atmosphere  characteristic 
of  pioneer  life.  He  had  scarcely  passed  his  fifteenth  year  (Nevins 
claims  in  1746),  when  he  helped  withstand  an  attack  of  Indians 
near  his  home,  and  this  may  be  considered  his  first  active  experi 
ence  with  the  Red  Man.  From  this  time  on,  the  history  of  the 
career  of  Robert  Rogers  is  the  history  of  the  efforts  of  the  Colo 
nists  against  the  Indians  as  far  west  as  Detroit,  and  as  far  south 
as  South  Carolina.  The  necessity  which  confronted  all  of  the 
Colonists  made  of  young  Rogers  one  of  the  most  expert  hunters 
of  the  period,  and  in  this  connection  he  was  associated  with  the 
famous  John  Stark,  of  Green  Mountain  Boys  reputation.  In  the 
latter's  Memoir,  written  by  Caleb  Stark,  we  have  as  graphic  a 
pen-picture  of  Rogers,  the  hunter,  at  twenty-two,  as  we  have 
actual  likenesses  of  Rogers  in  the  pictures  of  the  time.1 

Evidently  Rogers  flourished  financially  at  this  period,  for  we 
find  him  buying  land  in  Massachusetts  in  1753.  His  activity 
as  a  soldier  in  the  French  and  Indian  War  put  him  in  command 
of  a  company,  known  as  "Rogers'  Rangers,"  and  he  participated 
in  the  Siege  of  Detroit  against  Pontiac  and  the  French.  This 
experience  of  his  must  have  fired  Rogers  with  the  desire,  after 
careful  consideration  of  the  condition  of  the  Indian,  to  put  his 
special  plea  for  the  cause  of  the  Red  Man  in  some  permanent 
literary  form,  for  "Ponteach"  was  published  in  1766,  after  Rogers 
had  left  America,  had  gone  to  London,  and  thence  had  taken 
vessel  for  Algiers,  where  he  fought  under  Dey. 

By  1761,  Rogers  had  so  far  advanced  in  worldly  standing  that 
he  could  afford  to  turn  his  attention  to  family  affairs.  We  find 

1  These  pictures  were  struck  off  on  October  i,  1776.  See  Smith's  "British  Mez 
zotint  Portraits." 


112  Representative  Plays 

him  visiting  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire,  where  Elizabeth, 
daughter  of  the  Reverend  Arthur  Browne,  lived.  The  two  were 
married  on  June  3Oth  of  that  year;  but  evidently  there  was 
about  Robert  Rogers  something  his  father-in-law  did  not  quite 
relish.  For,  in  1763,  a  dispute  arose  between  the  two,  because 
of  Rogers'  increasing  dissipation.  That  they  did  not  reach, 
however,  any  immediate  open  rupture,  may  have  been  due  very 
largely  to  the  fact  that  Rogers  was  becoming  quite  a  land-owner 
in  New  York  and  New  Hampshire.  It  was  not  until  March  4, 
1778,  after  Rogers  had  gone  through  many  and  varied  experi 
ences,  not  the  least  of  which  was  serving  a  term  in  the  Debtors' 
Prison  in  England,  that  his  wife  was  granted,  by  the  New  Hamp 
shire  Legislature,  a  decree  of  divorce.  She  thereupon  married 
Captain  John  Poach. 

Naturally,  most  of  the  interest  attached  to  Rogers  is  historical, 
not  literary.  His  career  in  the  French  and  Indian  War,  outlined 
by  him  in  his  "Journal  of  the  French  and  Indian  War,"  which 
was  published  in  London  in  1765;  his  activity  in  the  Cherokee 
War  in  South  Carolina;1  his  association  with  William  Bird,  when 
he  had  an  opportunity  of  studying  the  methods  of  Indian  guides; 
his  political  ambitions  when  he  returned  to  England  in  1765 — 
all  of  these  are  matters  for  the  historian,  and  have  received  ade 
quate  consideration  by  Francis  Parkman  and  other  writers. 
During  these  activities,  Rogers  was  not  idle  with  his  pen.  He 
kept  his  Journals,  and  they  clearly  reveal  how  much  of  a  ranger 
he  was.  After  the  fashion  of  the  times,  when  he  returned  to 
England,  anxious  to  let  his  friends  know  of  the  conditions  in 
America,  he  not  only  published  his  Journals  (1769),  but  also  a 
concise  account  of  North  America  (1770).  But  there  must  have 
been  something  about  Rogers  as  a  soldier  of  fortune  that  was 
not  as  straight  or  as  honest  as  Davy  Crockett.  We  find  him,  for 
example,  entrusted  with  the  post  of  Governor  of  Mackinac,  and 
conducting  affairs  so  illy  that  he  was  tried  for  treason.  He  may 
have  advanced  as  a  soldier  through  the  successive  ranks  to 
Major,  but  it  would  seem  that  the  higher  up  he  advanced  in 
position  the  more  unscrupulous  he  became. 

After  serving  his  term  in  the  Debtors'  Prison,  which  began  on 
June  14,  1773,  he  returned  to  America,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Revolution.  Among  his  Colonial  friends,  he  not  only  counted 
John  Stark,  the  ranger,  but  Israel  Putnam  as  well,  both  of  them 

^ee  the  South  Carolina  Gazette  files  for  1760,  1761. 


Ponteach  113 

ardent  patriots  and  upholders  of  the  American  cause.  It  would 
seem,  in  1775,  that  Rogers,  to  all  outward  appearance,  was 
himself  in  sympathy  with  America.  He  professed  being  the 
staunch  lover  of  those  principles  which  America  was  upholding. 
But  General  Washington  soon  had  cause  to  doubt  his  loyalty, 
and  he  was  watched.  With  the  result  that  his  arrest  was  ordered, 
and  thereupon  he  confessed  his  adherence  to  the  Crown.  Rogers 
then  joined  the  forces  of  General  Howe,  bringing  with  him  an 
invaluable  knowledge  of  the  land  in  New  York  and  New  Jersey, 
and  adjacent  territory.  He  was  put  in  command  of  a  company, 
known  as  the  "Queen's  Rangers,"  and  throughout  the  Revolu 
tion  fought  bravely  on  the  opposing  side.  After  returning  to 
England,  he  battled  for  further  recognition,  but  never  received 
the  full  honours  he  courted.  He  died  on  May  18,  1795,  in  South 
London. 

"Ponteach"  was  probably  never  given  in  Rogers's  time.  There 
is  no  record  of  its  even  having  been  considered  by  any  of  the 
theatrical  companies.  It  was  published  in  1766,  with  a  London 
imprint  on  the  title-page.1  There  is  some  slight  probability  that 
it  was  given  an  amateur  production  at  Lake  George  by  the  sum 
mer  residents  there — certainly  an  appropriate  spot  to  present  a 
play  by  Rogers,  inasmuch  as  the  Ranger  was  known  in  that 
neighbourhood,  and  there  is  now  familiar  to  all  visitors  a  place 
called  "Rogers's  Slide,"  marking  one  of  his  escapades  with  the 
Indians. 

In  the  present  collection,  the  editor  has  followed  the  text  of 
the  1766  edition,  fully  realizing  the  consistent  changes  made  by 
Mr.  Allan  Nevins  in  his  edition  of  the  play  which,  with  an  Intro 
duction,  Biography,  and  invaluable  historical  notes,  was  pub 
lished  in  1914  by  the  Caxton  Club  of  Chicago.2 

This  piece  is  one  which  is  not  only  interesting  as  representative 
of  the  early  type  of  Indian  drama  in  America,  but  it  is  also  inter 
esting  as  reflective  of  the  attitude  of  a  dramatist  with  a  problem 
to  propound.  "Ponteach"  is  our  first  American  problem  play. 
Parkman  claims  that  at  least  part  of  it  was  written  by  Rogers, 
thus  throwing  doubt  on  his  entire  claim  to  authorship.  There 
is  not  only  a  dignity  displayed  in  the  drawing  of  the  main  char- 

1  Ponteach :/or  the/Savages  of  America,/A/Tragedy/ [Major  Robert  Rogers.] 
London  -./Printed  for  the  Author;  and  Sold  by  J.  Millan, /opposite  the  Admiralty, 
Whitehall./M.DCC.LXVI./ [Price  2s.  6d.J 

2Ponteach/or  the/Savages  of  America/A  Tragedy/By  Robert  Rogers/With  an 
Introduction/and  a  Biography  of  the  Author/By  Allan  Nevins/Chicago/The  Caxton 
Club/1914/ 


H4  Representative  Plays 

acter  of  the  Indian,  but  there  is  a  very  naive  attempt  at  subtle 
humour  in  the  characters  of  the  Englishmen.  There  is  no  distinct 
excellence  in  depicting  Indian  character  as  such,  after  the 
romantic  manner  of  Cooper,  although  Rogers,  with  his  English 
tradition,  has  been  able  to  lend  to  his  dialogue  a  certain  dignity  of 
diction  which  is  striking,  and  which  gives  the  play  a  decided 
literary  value.  Taken,  however,  as  an  historical  document — 
and  Mr.  Nevins  does  this — one  can  trace  in  "Ponteach"  the 
whole  range  of  Rogers's  experience  as  an  Indian  fighter.  There 
are  constant  allusions  in  the  text  to  matters  which  Mr.  Nevins 
has  found  necessary  to  explain  in  copious  footnotes,  and  therefore 
to  the  student  I  would  recommend  this  single  edition  of  the  play. 
"Ponteach"  is  published  here,  not  from  a  scholarly  standpoint, 
but  simply  as  an  example  of  early  Indian  drama. 

Of  these  Indian  dramas,  there  are  many  examples  in  the 
early  history  of  American  playwriting.  Laurence  Hutton  has  an 
entertaining  chapter  on  the  subject  in  his  "Curiosities  of  the 
American  Stage,"  in  which  he  enumerates  such  titles  as  "Oro- 
loosa,"  "Oroonoka,"  "Miautoumah,"  to  say  nothing  of  "Hia 
watha."  "Metamora;  or,  The  Last  of  the  Wampanoags"  was 
brought  to  success  through  the  powerful  acting  of  Edwin  Forrest, 
December  15,  1829.  William  Wheatley,  of  the  Park  Theatre, 
was  likewise  famed  for  his  Indian  impersonations.  Among  other 
more  or  less  well-known  plays  of  the  species,  enumerated  by 
Wegelin,  are: 

F.  DEFFENBACH.    "Onliata;  or,  The  Indian  Heroine."    Philadel 
phia.     1821. 

JOSEPH  DODDRIDGE.  "Logan:  The  Last  of  the  Race  of  Skikel- 
lemus,  Chief  of  the  Cayuga  Nation."  Buffalo  Creek,  Brooke 
Co.,  Va.  1823. 

G.  W.  P.  CUSTIS.    "The  Indian  Prophecy."    A  National  Drama 
in  Two  Acts,  founded  on  a  most  interesting  and  romantic 
occurrence  in  the  life  of  General  Washington.     Georgetown. 
1828. 

NATHANIEL  DEERING.    "Carrabasset;  or,  The  Last  of  the  Nor- 

ridgewocks."    A  Tragedy  in  Five  Acts.     Portland.     1830. 
W.  H.  C.  HOSMER.    "The  Fall  of  Tecumseh."    Avon.    1830. 


PONTEACH: 


OR    T  H  E 


Savages  of  America. 


TRAGEDY. 


LONDON: 

Printed  for  the  Author  ;  and  Sold  by  J.  MILL  AN, 
oppofite  the  Admiralty -,  Whitehall. 

M.DCC.LXV1. 
[    Price    as.  6d,     ] 


FAC-SIMILE  TITLE-PAGE  OF  THE  FIRST  EDITION 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

PONTEACH,  Indian  Emperor  on  the  Great  Lakes 

PHILIP  and  CHEKITAN,    Sons  of  Ponteach. 

TENESCO, 


ASTINACO, 
THE  BEAR, 
THE  WOLF, 

TORAX  and 
MONELIA 

INDIAN 
FRENCH 

SHARP, 
GRIPE, 
CATCHUM, 

Colonel  COCKUM, 
Captain  FRISK, 

M'DOLE  and 
MURPHEY, 

HONNYMAN  and 
ORSBOURN, 


His  chief  Counsellor  and  Generalissimo. 
Indian  Kings  who  join  with  Ponteach. 


Son  and   Daughter  to   Hendrick,   Em 
peror  of  the  Mohawks. 

Conjurer. 
Priest. 


Three  English  Governors. 


Commanders   at   a   Garrison    in    Pon- 
teach's  Country. 

Two  Indian  Traders. 


I  Two  English  Hunters. 


Mrs.  HONNYMAN,  Wife  to  Honnyman,  the  Hunter. 

Warriors,  Messengers,  &c. 


PONTEACH : 
OR  THE  SAVAGES  OF  AMERICA 

ACT  I. 
SCENE  I.   An  Indian  Trading  House. 

Enter  M'DoLE  and  MURPHEY,  two  Indian  Traders, 
and  their  Servants. 

M'DOLE. 

So,  Murphey,  you  are  come  to  try  your  Fortune 
Among  the  Savages  in  this  wild  Desart? 

MURPHEY. 

Ay,  any  Thing  to  get  an  honest  Living, 
Which  'faith  I  find  it  hard  enough  to  do; 
Times  are  so  dull,  and  Traders  are  so  plenty, 
That  Gains  are  small,  and  Profits  come  but  slow. 

M'DOLE. 

Are  you  experienc'd  in  this  kind  of  Trade? 
Know  you  the  Principles  by  which  it  prospers, 
And  how  to  make  it  lucrative  and  safe? 
If  not,  you're  like  a  Ship  without  a  Rudder, 
That  drives  at  random,  and  must  surely  sink. 

MURPHEY. 

I'm  unacquainted  with  your  Indian  Commerce, 
And  gladly  would  I  learn  the  Arts  from  you, 
Who're  old,  and  practis'd  in  them  many  Years. 

M'DOLE. 

That  is  the  curst  Misfortune  of  our  Traders, 
A  thousand  Fools  attempt  to  live  this  Way, 
Who  might  as  well  turn  Ministers  of  State. 
But,  as  you  are  a  Friend,  I  will  inform  you 
Of  all  the  secret  Arts  by  which  we  thrive, 


n8  Representative  Plays 

Which  if  all  practis'd,  we  might  all  grow  rich, 
Nor  circumvent  each  other  in  our  Gains. 
What  have  you  got  to  part  with  to  the  Indians? 

MURPHEY. 

I've  Rum  and  Blankets,  Wampum,  Powder,  Bells, 
And  such-like  Trifles  as  they're  wont  to  prize. 

M'DOLE. 

"Pis  very  well :  your  Articles  are  good : 

But  now  the  Thing's  to  make  a  Profit  from  them, 

Worth  all  your  Toil  and  Pains  of  coming  hither. 

Our  fundamental  Maxim  is  this, 

That  it's  no  Crime  to  cheat  and  gull  an  Indian. 

MURPHEY. 

How!  Not  a  Sin  to  cheat  an  Indian,  say  you? 
Are  they  not  Men?  hav'n't  they  a  Right  to  Justice 
As  well  as  we,  though  savage  in  their  Manners? 

M'DOLE. 

Ah!  If  you  boggle  here,  I  say  no  more; 
This  is  the  very  Quintessence  of  Trade, 
And  ev'ry  Hope  of  Gain  depends  upon  it; 
None  who  neglect  it  ever  did  grow  rich, 
Or  ever  will,  or  can  by  Indian  Commerce. 
By  this  old  Ogden  built  his  stately  House, 
Purchas'd  Estates,  and  grew  a  little  King. 
He,  like  an  honest  Man,  bought  all  by  Weight, 
And  made  the  ign'rant  Savages  believe 
That  his  Right  Foot  exactly  weigh'd  a  Pound : 
By  this  for  many  Years  he  bought  their  Furs, 
And  died  in  Quiet  like  an  honest  Dealer. 

MURPHEY. 

Well,  I'll  not  stick  at  what  is  necessary: 
But  his  Device  is  now  grown  old  and  stale, 
Nor  could  I  manage  such  a  barefac'd  Fraud. 

M'DOLE. 

A  thousand  Opportunities  present 

To  take  Advantage  of  their  Ignorance; 

But  the  great  Engine  I  employ  is  Rum, 


Ponteach  119 

More  powerful  made  by  certain  strength'ning  Drugs. 

This  I  distribute  with  a  lib'ral  Hand, 

Urge  them  to  drink  till  they  grow  mad  and  valiant; 

Which  makes  them  think  me  generous  and  just, 

And  gives  full  Scope  to  practise  all  my  Art. 

I  then  begin  my  Trade  with  water'd  Rum, 

The  cooling  Draught  well  suits  their  scorching  Throats. 

Their  Fur  and  Peltry  come  in  quick  Return : 

My  Scales  are  honest,  but  so  well  contriv'd, 

That  one  small  Slip  will  turn  Three  Pounds  to  One; 

Which  they,  poor  silly  Souls!  ignorant  of  Weights 

And  Rules  of  Balancing,  do  not  perceive. 

But  here  they  come;  you'll  see  how  I  proceed. 

Jack,  is  the  Rum  prepar'd  as  I  commanded? 

JACK. 
Yes,  sir,  all's  ready  when  you  please  to  call. 

M'DOLE. 

Bring  here  the  Scales  and  Weights  immediately. 
You  see  the  Trick  is  easy  and  conceal  'd. 

[Shewing  how  to  slip  the  scales. 

MURPHEY. 

By  Jupiter,  it's  artfully  contriv'd; 
And  was  I  King,  I  swear  I'd  knight  th'  Inventor. 
— Tom,  mind  the  Part  that  you  will  have  to  act. 

TOM. 

Ah,  never  fear,  I'll  do  as  well  as  Jack. 
But  then,  you  know,  an  honest  Servant's  Pains 
Deserve  Reward. 

MURPHEY. 
O!  I'll  take  care  of  that. 

Enter  a  number  of  INDIANS  with  packs  of  fur. 

IST  INDIAN. 
So,  what  you  trade  with  Indians  here  to-day? 

M'DOLE. 

Yes,  if  my  Goods  will  suit,  and  we  agree. 


I2O  Representative  Plays 

2ND  INDIAN. 
'Tis  Rum  we  want,  we're  tired,  hot,  and  thirsty. 

3RD  INDIAN. 
You,  Mr.  Englishman,  have  you  got  Rum? 

M'DOLE. 

Jack,  bring  a  Bottle,  pour  them  each  a  Gill. 

You  know  which  Cask  contains  the  Rum.    The  Rum? 

IST  INDIAN. 
It's  good  strong  Rum,  I  feel  it  very  soon. 

M'DOLE. 

Give  me  a  Glass.    Here's  Honesty  in  Trade; 
We  English  always  drink  before  we  deal. 

2ND  INDIAN. 
Good  Way  enough ;  it  makes  one  sharp  and  cunning. 

M'DOLE. 

Hand  round  another  Gill.    You're  very  welcome. 

3RD  INDIAN. 

Some  say  you  Englishmen  are  sometimes  Rogues; 
You  make  poor  Indians  drunk,  and  then  you  cheat. 

IST  INDIAN. 
No,  English  good.    The  Frenchmen  give  no  Rum. 

2ND  INDIAN. 
I  think  it's  best  to  trade  with  Englishmen. 

M'DOLE. 

What  is  your  Price  for  Beaver  Skins  per  Pound? 

IST  INDIAN. 
How  much  you  ask  per  Quart  for  this  strong  Rum? 

M'DOLE. 

Five  Pounds  of  Beaver  for  One  Quart  of  Rum. 

IST  INDIAN. 
Five  Pounds?    Too  much.    Which  is  't  you  call  Five  Pound? 

M'DOLE. 

This  little  Weight.    I  cannot  give  you  more. 


Ponteach  121 

IST  INDIAN. 
Well,  take  'em;  weigh  'em.    Don't  you  cheat  us  now. 

M'DOLE. 

No:  He  that  cheats  an  Indian  should  be  hang'd. 

[Weighing  the  packs. 

There's  Thirty  Pounds  precisely  of  the  Whole; 
Five  times  Six  is  Thirty.    Six  Quarts  of  Rum. 
Jack,  measure  it  to  them;  you  know  the  Cask. 
This  Rum  is  sold.    You  draw  it  off  the  best. 

[Exeunt  INDIANS  to  receive  their  rum. 

MURPHEY. 

By  Jove,  you've  gain'd  more  in  a  single  Hour 
Than  ever  I  have  done  in  Half  a  Year; 
Curse  on  my  Honesty !   I  might  have  been 
A  little  King,  and  liv'd  without  Concern, 
Had  I  but  known  the  proper  Arts  to  thrive. 

M'DOLE. 

Ay,  there's  the  Way,  my  honest  Friend,  to  live. 

[Clapping  his  shoulder. 

There's  Ninety  Weight  of  Sterling  Beaver  for  you, 
Worth  all  the  Rum  and  Trinkets  in  my  Store; 
And,  would  my  Conscience  let  me  to  the  Thing, 
I  might  enhance  my  Price,  and  lessen  theirs, 
And  raise  my  Profits  to  an  higher  Pitch. 

MURPHEY. 

I  can't  but  thank  you  for  your  kind  Instructions, 
As  from  them  I  expect  to  reap  Advantage. 
But  should  the  Dogs  detect  me  in  the  Fraud, 
They  are  malicious,  and  would  have  Revenge. 

M'DOLE. 

Can't  you  avoid  them?    Let  their  Vengeance  light 
On  others'  Heads,  no  matter  whose,  if  you 
Are  but  secure,  and  have  the  Cain  in  Hand: 
For  they're  indiff'rent  where  they  take  Revenge, 
Whether  on  him  that  cheated,  or  his  Friend, 
Or  on  a  Stranger  whom  they  never  saw, 
Perhaps  an  honest  Peasant,  who  ne'er  dreamt 


122  Representative  Plays 

Of  Fraud  or  Villainy  in  all  his  life ; 

Such  let  them  murder,  if  they  will  a  Score, 

The  Guilt  is  theirs,  while  we  secure  the  Gain, 

Nor  shall  we  feel  the  bleeding  Victims  Pain.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.   A  Desart. 
Enter  ORSBOURN  and  HONNYMAN,  two  English  Hunters. 

ORSBOURN. 

Long  have  we  toil'd,  and  rang'd  the  Woods  in  vain, 
No  Game,  nor  Track,  nor  Sign  of  any  Kind 
Is  to  be  seen;   I  swear  I  am  discourag'd 
And  weary'd  out  with  this  long  fruitless  Hunt. 
No  Life  on  Earth  besides  is  half  so  hard, 
So  full  of  Disappointments,  as  a  Hunter's: 
Each  Morn  he  wakes  he  views  the  destin'd  Prey, 
And  counts  the  Profits  of  th'  ensuing  Day; 
Each  Ev'ning  at  his  curs'd  ill  Fortune  pines, 
And  till  next  Day  his  Hope  of  Gain  resigns. 
By  Jove,  I'll  from  these  Desarts  hasten  home, 
And  swear  that  never  more  I'll  touch  a  Gun. 

HONNYMAN. 

These  hateful  Indians  kidnap  all  the  Game. 
Curse  their  black  Heads!  they  fright  the  Deer  and  Bear, 
And  ev'ry  Animal  that  haunts  the  Wood, 
Or  by  their  Witchcraft  conjure  them  away. 
No  Englishman  can  get  a  single  Shot, 
While  they  go  loaded  home  with  Skins  and  Furs. 
'Twere  to  be  wish'd  not  one  of  them  survived, 
Thus  to  infest  the  World,  and  plague  Mankind. 
Curs'd  Heathen  Infidels!  mere  savage  Beasts! 
They  don't  deserve  to  breathe  in  Christian  Air, 
And  should  be  hunted  down  like  other  Brutes. 

ORSBOURN. 

I  only  wish  the  Laws  permitted  us 
To  hunt  the  savage  Herd  where  e'er  they're  found; 
I'd  never  leave  the  Trade  of  Hunting  then, 
While  one  remain'd  to  tread  and  range  the  Wood. 


Ponteach  123 

HONNYMAN. 

Curse  on  the  Law,  I  say,  that  makes  it  Death  . 
To  kill  an  Indian,  more  than  to  kill  a  Snake. 
What  if  'tis  Peace?  these  Dogs  deserve  no  Mercy; 
Cursed  revengeful,  cruel,  faithless  Devils! 
They  kill'd  my  Father  and  my  eldest  Brother. 
Since  which  I  hate  their  very  Looks  and  Name. 

ORSBOURN. 

And  I,  since  they  betray 'd  and  kill'd  my  Uncle; 
Hell  seize  their  cruel,  unrelenting  Souls! 
Tho'  these  are  not  the  same,  'twould  ease  my  Heart 
To  cleave  their  painted  Heads,  and  spill  their  Blood. 
I  abhor,  detest,  and  hate  them  all, 
And  now  cou'd  eat  an  Indian's  Heart  with  Pleasure. 

HONNYMAN. 

I'd  join  you,  and  soop  his  savage  Brains  for  Sauce; 
I  lose  all  Patience  when  I  think  of  them, 
And,  if  you  will,  we'll  quickly  have  Amends 
For  our  long  Travel  and  successless  Hunt, 
And  the  sweet  Pleasure  of  Revenge  to  boot. 

ORSBOURN. 
What  will  you  do?    Present,  and  pop  one  down? 

HONNYMAN. 

Yes,  faith,  the  first  we  meet  well  fraught  with  Furs; 
Or  if  there's  Two,  and  we  can  make  sure  Work, 
By  Jove,  we'll  ease  the  Rascals  of  their  Packs, 
And  send  them  empty  home  to  their  own  Country. 
But  then  observe,  that  what  we  do  is  secret, 
Or  the  Hangman  will  come  in  for  Snacks. 

ORSBOURN. 

Trust  me  for  that;  I'll  join  with  all  my  Heart; 
Nor  with  a  nicer  Aim,  or  steadier  Hand, 
Would  shoot  a  Tyger  than  I  would  an  Indian. 
There  is  a.  Couple  stalking  now  this  Way 
With  lusty  Packs;  Heav'n  favour  our  Design. 

HONNYMAN. 
Silence;  conceal  yourself,  and  mind  your  Eye. 


124  Representative  Plays 

ORSBOURN. 
Are  you  well  charg'd? 

HONNYMAN. 

I  am.    Take  you  the  nearest, 

And  mind  to  fire  exactly  when  I  do. 

ORSBOURN. 
A  charming  Chance! 

HONNYMAN. 
Hush,  let  them  still  come  nearer. 

[They  shoot,  and  run  to  rifle  the  INDIANS. 
They're  down,  old  Boy,  a  Brace  of  noble  Bucks! 

ORSBOURN. 
Well  tallow'd,  faith,  and  noble  Hides  upon  'em. 

[Taking  up  a  pack. 

We  might  have  hunted  all  the  Season  thro' 
For  Half  this  Game,  and  thought  ourselves  well  paid. 

HONNYMAN. 

By  Jove,  we  might,  and  been  at  great  Expence 
For  Lead  and  Powder,  here's  a  single  Shot. 

ORSBOURN. 
I  swear  I've  got  as  much  as  I  can  carry. 

HONNYMAN. 

And  faith  I'm  not  behind;  this  Pack  is  heavy. 
But  stop;  we  must  conceal  the  tawny  Dogs, 
Or  their  blood-thirsty  Countrymen  will  find  them, 
And  then  we're  bit.    There'll  be  the  Devil  to  pay", 
They'll  murder  us,  and  cheat  the  Hangman  too. 

ORSBOURN. 

Right.    We'll  prevent  all  Mischief  of  this  Kind. 
Where  shall  we  hide  their  savage  Carcases? 

HONNYMAN. 
There  they  will  lie  conceal'd  and  snug  enough — 

[They  cover  them. 

But  stay — perhaps  ere  long  there'll  be  a  War, 
And  then  their  Scalps  will  sell  for  ready  Cash 
Two  Hundred  Crowns  at  least,  and  that's  worth  saving. 


Ponteach  125 

ORSBOURN. 

Well!  that  is  true,  no  sooner  said  than  done — [Drawing  his  knife. 
I'll  strip  this  Fellow's  painted  greasy  Skull.     [Strips  of  the  scalp. 

HONNYMAN. 

A  damn'd  tough  Hide,  or  my  Knife's  devilish  dull — 

[Takes  the  other  scalp. 

Now  let  them  sleep  to-night  without  their  Caps, 
And  pleasant  Dreams  attend  their  long  Repose. 

ORSBOURN. 

Their  Guns  and  Hatchets  now  are  lawful  Prize, 
For  they'll  not  need  them  on  their  present  Journey. 

HONNYMAN. 

The  Devil  hates  Arms,  and  dreads  the  Smell  of  Powder; 
He'll  not  allow  such  Instruments  about  him, 
They're  free  from  training  now,  they're  in  his  Clutches. 

ORSBOURN. 

But,  Honnyman,  d'ye  think  this  is  not  Murder? 
I  vow  I'm  shock'd  a  little  to  see  them  scalp'd, 
And  fear  their  Ghosts  will  haunt  us  in  the  Dark. 

HONNYMAN. 

It's  no  more  Murder  than  to  crack  a  Louse, 
That  is,  if  you've  the  Wit  to  keep  it  private. 
And  as  to  Haunting,  Indians  have  no  Ghosts, 
But  as  they  live  like  Beasts,  like  Beasts  they  die. 
I've  kill'd  a  Dozen  in  this  self-same  Way, 
And  never  yet  was  troubled  with  their  Spirits. 

ORSBOURN. 

Then  I'm  content;  my  Scruples  are  remov'd. 
And  what  I've  done,  my  Conscience  justifies. 
But  we  must  have  these  Guns  and  Hatchets  alter'd, 
Or  they'll  detect  th'  Affair,  and  hang  us  both. 

HONNYMAN. 

That's  quickly  done — Let  us  with  Speed  return, 
And  think  no  more  of  being  hang'd  or  haunted; 
But  turn  our  Fuf  to  Gold,  our  Gold  to  Wine, 
Thus  gaily  spend  what  we've  so  slily  won, 
And  bless  the  first  Inventor  of  a  Gun.  [Exeunt. 


126  Representative  Plays 

SCENE  III.   An  English  Fort. 
Enter  Colonel  COCKUM  and  Captain  FRISK. 

COCKUM. 

What  shall  we  do  with  these  damn'd  bawling  Indians? 
They're  swarming  every  Day  with  their  Complaints 
Of  Wrongs  and  Injuries,  and  God  knows  what — 
I  wish  the  Devil  would  take  them  to  himself. 

FRISK. 

Your  Honour's  right  to  wish  the  Devil  his  Due. 
I'd  send  the  noisy  Hellhounds  packing  hence, 
Nor  spend  a  Moment  in  debating  with  them. 
The  more  you  give  Attention  to  their  Murmurs, 
The  more  they'll  plague  and  haunt  you  every  Day, 
Besides,  their  old  King  Ponteach  grows  damn'd  saucy, 
Talks  of  his  Power,  and  threatens  what  he'll  do. 
Perdition  to  their  faithless  sooty  Souls, 
I'd  let  'em  know  at  once  to  keep  their  Distance. 

COCKUM. 

Captain,  You're  right;  their  Insolence  is  such 
As  beats  my  Patience;  cursed  Miscreants! 
They  are  encroaching;   fain  would  be  familiar:' 
I'll  send  their  painted  Heads  to  Hell  with  Thunder! 
I  swear  I'll  blow  'em  hence  with  Cannon  Ball, 
And  give  the  Devil  an  Hundred  for  his  Supper. 

* 

FRISK. 

They're  coming  here;  you  see  they  scent  your  Track, 
And  while  you'll  listen,  they  will  ne'er  be  silent, 
But  every  Day  improve  in  Insolence. 

COCKUM. 
I'll  soon  dispatch  and  storm  them  from  my  Presence. 

Enter  PONTEACH,  and  other  Indian  CHIEFS. 

PONTEACH. 

Well,  Mr.  Colonel  Cockum,  what  d'  they  call  you? 
You  give  no  Answer  yet  to  my  Complaint; 
Your  Men  give  my  Men  always  too  much  Rum, 
Then  trade  and  cheat  'em.    What!  d'  ye  think  this  right? 


Pon  teach  127 

COCKUM. 

Tush!  Silence!  hold  your  noisy  cursed  Nonsense; 
I've  heard  enough  of  it;  what  is  it  to  me? 

PONTEACH. 

What!  you  a  Colonel,  and  not  command  your  Men? 
Let  ev'ry  one  be  a  Rogue  that  has  a  Mind  to  't. 

COCKUM. 

Why,  curse  your  Men,  I  suppose  they  wanted  Rum; 
They'll  rarely  be  content,  I  know,  without  it. 

PONTEACH. 

What  then?    If  Indians  are  such  Fools,  I  think 
White  Men  like  you  should  stop  and  teach  them  better. 

COCKUM. 
I'm  not  a  Pedagogue  to  your  curs'd  Indians.  [Aside. 

PONTEACH. 
Colonel,  I  hope  that  you'll  consider  this. 

FRISK. 

W7hy,  don't  you  see  the  Colonel  will  not  hear  you? 
You'd  better  go  and  watch  your  Men  yourself, 
Nor  plague  us  with  your  cursed  endless  Noise; 
We've  something  else  to  do  of  more  Importance. 

PONTEACH. 

* 

Hah!  Captain  Frisk,  what!  you  a  great  man  too? 
My  Bus'ness  here  is  only  with  your  Colonel; 
And  I'll  be  heard,  or  know  the  Reason  why. 

IST  CHIEF. 
I  thought  the  English  had  been  better  Men. 

2ND  CHIEF. 

Frenchmen  would  always  hear  an  Indian  speak, 
And  answer  fair,  and  make  good  Promises. 

COCKUM. 

You  may  be  d d,  and  all  your  Frenchmen  too. 

PONTEACH. 
Be  d d !  what's  that?    I  do  not  understand. 


128  Representative  Plays 

COCKUM. 

The  Devil  teach  you ;  he'll  do  it  without  a  Fee. 

PONTEACH. 

The  Devil  teach!   I  think  you  one  great  Fool. 
Did  your  King  tell  you  thus  to  treat  the  Indians? 
Had  he  been  such  a  Dunce  he  ne'er  had  conquer'd, 
And  made  the  running  French  for  Quarter  cry. 
I  always  mind  that  such  proud  Fools  are  Cowards, 
And  never  do  aught  that  is  great  or  good. 

COCKUM. 

Forbear  your  Impudence,  you  curs'd  old  Thief; 
This  Moment  leave  my  Fort,  and  to  your  Country. 
Let  me  hear  no  more  of  your  hellish  Clamour, 

Or  to  D n  I  will  blow  you  all, 

And  feast  the  Devil  with  one  hearty  Meal. 

PONTEACH. 

So  ho!  Know  you  whose  Country  you  are  in? 
Think  you,  because  you  have  subdu'd  the  French, 
That  Indians  too  are  now  become  your  Slaves? 
This  Country's  mine,  and  here  I  reign  as  King; 
I  value  not  your  Threats,  nor  Forts,  nor  Guns; 
I  have  got  Warriors,  Courage,  Strength,  and  Skill. 
Colonel,  take  care;   the  Wound  is  very  deep, 
Consider  well,  for  it  is  hard  to  cure.  [Exeunt  INDIANS. 

FRISK. 

Vile  Infidels!  observe  their  Insolence; 
Old  Ponteach  puts  on  a  mighty  Air. 

COCKUM. 

They'll  always  be  a  Torment  till  destroy'd, 
And  sent  all  headlong  to  the  Devil's  Kitchen. 
This  curs'd  old  Thief,  no  doubt,  will  give  us  Trouble, 
Provok'd  and  madded  at  his  cool  Reception. 

FRISK. 

Oh!  Colonel,  they  are  never  worth  our  minding, 
What  can  they  do  against  our  Bombs  and  Cannon? 
True,  they  may  skulk,  and  kill  and  scalp  a  few, 


Ponteach  129 

But,  Heav'n  be  thank'd,  we're  safe  within  these  Walls: 
Besides,  I  think  the  Governors  are  coming, 
To  make  them  Presents,  and  establish  Peace. 

COCKUM. 

That  may  perhaps  appease  their  bloody  Minds, 
And  keep  them  quiet  for  some  little  Term. 
God  send  the  Day  that  puts  them  all  to  sleep, 
Come,  will  you  crack  a  Bottle  at  my  Tent? 

FRISK. 

With  all  my  Heart,  and  drink  D n  to  them. 

COCKUM. 
I  can  in  nothing  more  sincerely  join.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  An  Apartment  in  the  Fort. 
Enter  Governors  SHARP,  GRIPE,  and  CATCHUM. 

SHARP. 

Here  are  we  met  to  represent  our  King, 
And  by  his  royal  Bounties  to  conciliate 
These  Indians'  Minds  to  Friendship,  Peace,  and  Love. 
But  he  that  would  an  honest  Living  get 
In  Times  so  hard  and  difficult  as  these, 
Must  mind  that  good  old  Rule,  Take  care  of  On> 

GRIPE. 

Ay,  Christian  Charity  begins  at  home; 
I  think  it's  in  the  Bible,  I  know  I've  read  it. 

CATCHUM. 

I  join  with  Paul,  that  he's  an  Infidel 
Who  does  not  for  himself  and  Friends  provide. 

SHARP. 

Yes,  Paul  in  fact  was  no  bad  Politician, 
And  understood  himself  as  well  as  most. 
All  good  and  wise  Men  certainly  take  care 
To  help  themselves  and  Families  the  first; 
Thus  dictates  Nature,  Instinct,  and  Religion, 
Whose  easy  Precepts  ought  to  be  obey'd. 


130  Representative  Plays 

GRIPE. 

But  how  does  this  affect  our  present  Purpose? 
We've  heard  the  Doctrine;  what's  the  Application? 

SHARP. 

We  are  intrusted  with  these  Indian  Presents. 
A  Thousand  Pound  was  granted  by  the  King, 
To  satisfy  them  of  his  Royal  Goodness, 
His  constant  Disposition  to  their  Welfare, 
And  reconcile  their  savage  Minds  to  Peace. 
Five  hundred's  gone;  you  know  our  late  Division, 
Our  great  Expence,  Et  cetera,  no  Matter: 
The  other  Half  was  laid  out  for  these  Goods, 
To  be  distributed  as  we  think  proper; 
And  whether  Half  (I  only  put  the  Question) 
Of  these  said  Goods,  won't  answer  every  End, 
And  bring  about  as  long  a  lasting  Peace 
As  tho'  the  Whole  were  lavishly  bestow'd? 

CATCHUM. 

I'm  clear  upon  't  they  will,  if  we  affirm 
That  Half's  the  Whole  was  sent  them  by  the  King. 

GRIPE. 

There  is  no  doubt  but  that  One  Third  wou'd  answer, 
For  they,  poor  Souls!  are  ign'rant  of  the  Worth 
Of  single  Things,  nor  know  they  how  to  add 
Or  calculate,  and  cast  the  whole  Amount. 

SHARP. 

Why,  Want  of  Learning  is  a  great  Misfortune. 
How  thankful  should  we  be  that  we  have  Schools, 
And  better  taught  and  bred  than  these  poor  Heathen. 

CATCHUM. 

Yes,  only  these  Two  simple  easy  Rules, 
Addition  and  Subtraction,  are  great  Helps, 
And  much  contribute  to  our  happiness. 

SHARP. 

'Tis  these  I  mean  to  put  in  Practice  now; 
Subtraction  from  these  Royal  Presents  makes 
Addition  to  our  Gains  without  a  Fraction. 


Pon  teach  131 

But  let  us  overhaul  and  take  the  best, 
Things  may  be  given  that  won't  do  to  sell. 

[They  overhaul  the  goods,  &c. 
CATCHUM. 
Lay  these  aside;  they'll  fetch  a  noble  Price. 

GRIPE. 
And  these  are  very  saleable,  I  think. 

SHARP. 

The  Indians  will  be  very  fond  of  these. 
Is  there  the  Half,  think  you? 

GRIPE. 
It's  thereabouts. 

CATCHUM. 

This  bag  of  Wampum  may  be  added  yet. 

SHARP. 
Here,  Lads,  convey  these  Goods  to  our  Apartment. 

SERVANT. 
The  Indians,  sir,  are  waiting  at  the  Gate. 

GRIPE. 
Conduct  them  in  when  you've  disposed  of  these. 

CATCHUM. 
This  should  have  been  new-drawn  before  they  enter'd. 

[Pulling  out  an  inventory  of  the  whole  goods. 

GRIPE. 

What  matters  that?    They  cannot  read,  you  know, 
And  you  can  read  to  them  in  gen'ral  Terms. 

Enter  PONTEACH,  with  several  of  his  Chieftains. 

SHARP. 

Welcome,  my  Brothers,  we  are  glad  to  meet  you, 
And  hope  that  you  will  not  repent  our  coming. 

PONTEACH. 

We're  glad  to  see  our  Brothers  here  the  English. 
If  honourable  Peace  be  your  Desire, 


132    .-  Representative  Plays 

We/a  always  have  the  Hatchet  buried  deep, 
While  Sun  and  Moon,  Rivers  and  Lakes  endure, 
And  Trees  and  Herbs  within  our  Country  grow. 
But  then  you  must  not  cheat  and  wrong  the  Indians, 
Or  treat  us  with  Reproach,  Contempt,  and  Scorn; 
Else  we  will  raise  the  Hatchet  to  the  Sky, 
And  let  it  never  touch  the  Earth  again, 
Sharpen  its  Edge,  and  keep  it  bright  as  Silver, 
Or  stain  it  red  with  Murder  and  with  Blood. 
Mind  what  I  say,  I  do  not  tell  you  Lies. 

SHARP. 

We  hope  you  have  no  Reason  to  complain 
That  Englishmen  conduct  to  you  amiss; 
We're  griev'd  if  they  have  given  you  Offence, 
And  fain  would  heal  the  Wound  while  it  is  fresh, 
Lest  it  should  spread,  grow  painful,  and  severe. 

PONTEACH. 

Your  Men  make  Indians  drunk,  and  then  they  cheat  'em. 

Your  Officers,  your  Colonels,  and  your  Captains 

Are  proud,  morose,  ill-natur'd,  churlish  Men, 

Treat  us  with  Disrespect,  Contempt,  and  Scorn. 

I  tell  you  plainly  this  will  never  do, 

We  never  thus  were  treated  by  the  French, 

Them  we  thought  bad  enough,  but  think  you  worse. 

SHARP. 

There's  good  and  bad,  you  know,  in  every  Nation; 
There's  some  good  Indians,  some  are  the  reverse, 
Whom  you  can't  govern,  and  restrain  from  ill; 
So  there's  some  Englishmen  that  will  be  bad. 
You  must  not  mind  the  Conduct  of  a  few, 
Nor  judge  the  rest  by  what  you  see  of  them. 

PONTEACH. 

If  you've  some  good,  why  don't  you  send  them  here? 
These  every  one  are  Rogues,  and  Knaves,  and  Fools, 
And  think  no  more  of  Indians  than  of  Dogs. 
Your  King  had  better  send  his  good  Men  hither, 
And  keep  his  bad  ones  in  some  other  Country; 
Then  you  would  find  that  Indians  would  do  well, 
Be  peaceable,  and  honest  in  their  Trade; 


Pon  teach  133 

We'd  love  you,  treat  you,  as  our  Friends  and  Brothers, 
And  Raise  the  Hatchet  only  in  your  Cause. 

SHARP. 

Our  King  is  very  anxious  for  your  Welfare, 
And  greatly  wishes  for  your  Love  and  Friendship; 
He  would  not  have  the  Hatchet  ever  raised, 
But  buried  deep,  stamp'd  down  and  cover'd  o'er, 
As  with  a  Mountain  that  can  never  move: 
For  this  he  sent  us  to  your  distant  Country, 
Bid  us  deliver  you  these  friendly  Belts, 

[Holding  out  belts  of  wampum. 
All  cover'd  over  with  his  Love  and  Kindness. 
He  like  a  Father  loves  you  as  his  Children ; 
And  like  a  Brother  wishes  you  all  Good ; 
We'll  let  him  know  the  Wounds  that  you  complain  of, 
And  he'll  be  speedy  to  apply  the  Cure, 
And  clear  the  Path  to  Friendship,  Peace,  and  Trade. 

PONTEACH. 

Your  King,  I  hear  's  a  good  and  upright  Man, 
True  to  his  word,  and  friendly  in  his  Heart; 
Not  proud  and  insolent,  morose  and  sour, 
Like  these  his  petty  Officers  and  Servants: 
I  want  to  see  your  King,  and  let  him  know 
What  must  be  done  to  keep  the  Hatchet  dull, 
And  how  the  Path  of  Friendship,  Peace,  and  Trade 
May  be  kept  clean  and  solid  as  a  Rock. 

SHARP. 

Our  King  is  distant  over  the  great  Lake, 
But  we  can  quickly  send  him  your  Requests; 
To  which  he'll  listen  with  attentive  Ear, 
And  act  as  tho'  you  told  him  with  your  Tongue. 

PONTEACH. 

Let  him  know  then  his  People  here  are  Rogues, 
And  cheat  and  wrong  and  use  the  Indians  ill. 
Tell  him  to  send  good  Officers,  and  call 
These  proud  ill-natur'd  Fellows  from  my  Country, 
And  keep  his  Hunters  from  my  hunting  Ground. 


134  Representative  Plays 

He  must  do  this,  and  do  it  quickly  too, 
Or  he  will  find  the  Path  between  us  bloody. 

SHARP. 

Of  this  we  will  acquaint  our  gracious  King, 
And  hope  you  and  your  Chiefs  will  now  confirm 
A  solid  Peace  as  if  our  King  was  present; 
We're  his  Ambassadors,  and  represent  him, 
And  bring  these  Tokens  of  his  Royal  Friendship 
To  you,  your  Captains,  Chiefs,  and  valiant  Men. 
Read,  Mr.  Catchum,  you've  the  Inventory. 

CATCHUM. 

The  British  King,  of  his  great  Bounty,  sends 
To  Ponteach,  King  upon  the  Lakes,  and  his  Chiefs, 
Two  hundred,  No  [Aside]  a  Number  of  fine  Blankets, 
Six  hundred  [Aside]  Yes,  and  several  Dozen  Hatchets, 
Twenty  thousand  [Aside]  and  a  Bag  of  Wampum, 
A  Parcel  too  of  Pans,  and  Knives,  and  Kettles. 

SHARP. 

This  rich  and  royal  Bounty  you'll  accept, 
And  as  you  please  distribute  to  your  Chiefs, 
And  let  them  know  they  come  from  England's  King, 
As  Tokens  to  them  of  his  Love  and  Favour. 
We've  taken  this  long  Journey  at  great  Charge, 
To  see  and  hold  with  you  this  friendly  Talk; 
We  hope  your  Minds  are  all  disposed  to  Peace, 
And  that  you  like  our  Sovereign's  Bounty  well. 

IST  CHIEF. 

We  think  it  very  small,  we  heard  of  more. 
Most  of  our  Chiefs  and  Warriors  are  not  here, 
They  all  expect  to  share  a  Part  with  us. 

2ND  CHIEF. 

These  won't  reach  round  to  more  than  half  our  Tribes, 
Few  of  our  Chiefs  will  have  a  single  Token 
Of  your  King's  Bounty,  that  you  speak  so  much  of. 

3RD  CHIEF. 

And  those  who  haven't  will  be  dissatisfied, 
Think  themselves  slighted,  think  your  King  is  stingy, 


Ponteach  ,       135 

Or  else  that  you  his  Governors  are  Rogues, 
And  keep  your  Master's  Bounty  for  yourselves. 

4TH  CHIEF. 

We  hear  such  Tricks  are  sometimes  play'd  with  Indians. 
King  Astenaco,  the  great  Southern  Chief, 
Who's  been  in  England,  and  has  seen  your  King, 
Told  me  that  he  was  generous,  kind,  and  true, 
But  that  his  Officers  were  Rogues  and  Knaves, 
And  cheated  Indians  out  of  what  he  gave. 

GRIPE. 
The  Devil's  in  't,  I  fear  that  we're  detected.  [Aside. 

PONTEACH. 

Indians  a'n't  Fools,  if  White  Men  think  us  so; 
We  see,  we  hear,  we  think  as  well  as  you ; 
We  know  there  're  Lies,  and  Mischiefs  in  the  World; 
We  don't  know  whom  to  trust,  nor  when  to  fear; 
Men  are  uncertain,  changing  as  the  Wind, 
Inconstant  as  the  Waters  of  the  Lakes, 
Some  smooth  and  fair,  and  pleasant  as  the  Sun, 
Some  rough  and  boist'rous,  like  the  Winter  Storm; 
Some  are  Insidious  as  the  subtle  Snake, 
Some  innocent,  and  harmless  as  the  Dove; 
Some  like  the  Tyger  raging,  cruel,  fierce, 
Some  like  the  Lamb,  humble,  submissive,  mild, 
And  scarcely  one  is  every  Day  the  same; 
But  I  call  no  Man  bad,  till  such  he's  found, 
Then  I  condemn  and  cast  him  from  my  Sight; 
And  no  more  trust  him  as  a  Friend  and  Brother. 
I  hope  to  find  you  honest  Men  and  true. 

SHARP. 

Indeed  you  may  depend  upon  our  Honours, 
We're  faithful  Servants  of  the  best  of  Kings; 
We  scorn  an  Imposition  on  your  Ignorance, 
Abhor  the  Arts  of  Falsehood  and  Deceit. 
These  are  the  Presents  our  great  Monarch  sent, 
He's  of  a  bounteous,  noble,  princely  Mind 
And  had  he  known  the  Numbers  of  your  Chiefs, 
Each  would  have  largely  shar'd  his  Royal  Goodness; 


Representative  Plays 

But  these  are  rich  and  worthy  your  Acceptance, 
Few  Kings  on  Earth  can  such  as  these  bestow, 
For  Goodness,  Beauty,  Excellence,  and  Worth. 

PONTEACH. 

The  Presents  from  your  Sovereign  I  accept, 

His  friendly  Belts  to  us  shall  be  preserved, 

And  in  Return  convey  you  those  to  him.  [Belts  and  furs. 

Which  let  him  know  our  Mind,  and  what  we  wish, 

That  we  dislike  his  crusty  Officers, 

And  wish  the  Path  of  Peace  was  made  more  plain, 

The  Calumet  I  do  not  choose  to  smoke, 

Till  I  see  further,  and  my  other  Chiefs 

Have  been  consulted.    Tell  your  King  from  me, 

That  first  or  last  a  Rogue  will  be  detected, 

That  I  have  Warriors,  am  myself  a  King, 

And  will  be  honour'd  and  obey'd  as  such; 

Tell  him  my  Subjects  shall  not  be  oppress'd, 

But  I  will  seek  Redress  and  take  Revenge; 

Tell  your  King  this;   I  have  no  more  to  say. 

SHARP. 

To  our  great  King  your  Gifts  we  will  convey, 
And  let  him  know  the  Talk  we've  had  with  you ; 
WVre  griev'd  we  cannot  smoke  the  Pipe  of  Peace, 
And  part  with  stronger  Proofs  of  Love  and  Friendship; 
Meantime  we  hope  you'll  so  consider  Matters, 
As  still  to  keep  the  Hatchet  dull  and  buried, 
And  open  wide  the  shining  Path  of  Peace, 
That  you  and  we  may  walk  without  a  Blunder. 

[Exeunt  INDIANS. 

GRIPE. 
Th'  appear  not  fully  satisfied,  I  think. 

CATCHUM. 

I  do  not  like  old  Ponteach's  Talk  and  Air, 
He  seems  suspicious,  and  inclin'd  to  war. 

SHARP. 

They're  always  jealous,  bloody,  and  revengeful, 
You  see  that  they  distrust  our  Word  and  Honour; 
No  wonder  then  if  they  suspect  the  Traders, 
And  often  charge  them  with  downright  Injustice. 


Ponteach  137 

GRIPE. 

True,  when  even  we  that  come  to  make  them  Presents, 
Cannot  escape  their  Fears  and  Jealousies. 

CATCHUM. 

Well,  we  have  this,  at  least,  to  comfort  us; 
Their  good  Opinion  is  no  Commendation, 
Nor  their  foul  Slanders  any  Stain  to  Honour. 
I  think  we've  done  whatever  Men  could  do 
To  reconcile  their  savage  Minds  to  Peace. 
If  they're  displeas'd,  our  Honour  is  acquitted, 
And  we  have  not  been  wanting  in  our  Duty 
To  them,  our  King,  our  Country,  and  our  Friends. 

GRIPE. 

But  what  Returns  are  these  they've  left  behind? 
These  Belts  are  valuable,  and  neatly  wrought. 

CATCHUM. 

This  Pack  of  Furs  is  very  weighty  too; 
The  Skins  are  pick'd,  and  of  the  choicest  Kind. 

SHARP. 
By  Jove,  they're  worth  more  Money  than  their  Presents. 

GRIPE. 
Indeed  they  are;  the  King  will  be  no  Loser. 

SHARP. 
The  King!  who  ever  sent  such  Trumpery  to  him? 

CATCHUM. 

What  would  the  King  of  England  do  with  Wampum? 
Or  Beaver  Skins,  d'ye  think?    He's  not  a  Hatter! 

GRIPE. 

Then  it's  a  Perquisite  belongs  to  us? 

SHARP. 

Yes,  they're  become  our  lawful  Goods  and  Chattels, 
By  all  the  Rules  and  Laws  of  Indian  Treaties. 
The  King  would  scorn  to  take  a  Gift  from  Indians, 
And  think  us  Madmen,  should  we  send  them  to  him. 


138  Representative  Plays 

CATCHUM. 

I  understand  we  make  a  fair  Division, 
And  have  no  Words  nor  Fraud  among  ourselves. 

SHARP. 

We  throw  the  whole  into  one  common  Stock, 
And  go  Copartners  in  the  Loss  and  Gain. 
Thus  most  who  handle  Money  for  the  Crown 
Find  means  to  make  the  better  Half  their  own ; 
And,  to  your  better  Judgments  with  Submission, 
The  self  Neglecter's  a  poor  Politician. 
These  Gifts,  you  see  will  all  Expences  pay;    1 
Heav'n  send  an  Indian  Treaty  every  Day;      f 
We  dearly  love  to  serve  our  King  this  way.    J 

The  End  of  the  First  Act. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.   An  Indian  House. 
Enter  PHILIP  and  CHEKITAN  from  hunting,  loaded  -with  venison. 

PHILIP. 

The  Day's  Toil's  ended,  and  the  Ev'ning  smiles 
With  all  the  Joy  and  Pleasantness  of  Plenty. 
Our  good  Success  and  Fortune  in  the  Chace 
Will  make  us  Mirth  and  Pastime  for  the  Night. 
How  will  the  old  King  and  his  Hunters  smile 
To  see  us  loaded  with  the  fatt'ning  Prey, 
And  joyously  relate  their  own  Adventures? 
Not  the  brave  Victor's  Shout,  or  Spoils  of  War, 
Would  give  such  Pleasure  to  their  gladden 'd  Hearts. 

CHEKITAN. 

These,  Philip,  are  the  unstain'd  Fruits  of  Peace, 
Effected  by  the  conqu'ring  British  Troops. 
Now  may  we  hunt  the  Wilds  secure  from  Foes, 
And  seek  our  Food  and  Clothing  by  the  Chace, 
While  Ease  and  Plenty  thro'  our  Country  reign. 

PHILIP. 

Happy  Effects  indeed !  long  may  they  last ! 
But  I  suspect  the  Term  will  be  but  short, 


Ponteach  139 


Ere  this  our  happy  Realm  is  curs'd  afresh 
With  all  the  Noise  and  Miseries  of  War, 
And  Blood  and  Murder  stain  our  Land  again. 

CHEKITAN. 

What  hast  thou  heard  that  seems  to  threaten  this, 
Or  is  it  idle  Fancy  and  Conjectures? 

PHILIP. 

Our  Father's  late  Behaviour  and  Discourse 
Unite  to  raise  Suspicions  in  my  Mind 
Of  his  Designs?   Hast  thou  not  yet  observ'd, 
That  tho'  at  first  he  favour'd  England's  Troops, 
When  they  late  landed  on  our  fertile  Shore, 
Proclaim'd  his  Approbation  of  their  March, 
Convoy'd  their  Stores,  protected  them  from  Harm, 
Nay,  put  them  in  Possession  of  Detroit; 
And  join'd  to  fill  the  Air  with  loud  Huzzas 
When  England's  Flag  was  planted  on  its  Walls? 
Yet,  since,  he  seems  displeas'd  at  their  Success, 
Thinks  himself  injured,  treated  with  Neglect 
By  their  Commanders,  as  of  no  Account, 
As  one  subdu'd  and  conquer'd  with  the  French, 
As  one,  whose  Right  to  Empire  now  is  lost, 
And  he  become  a  Vassal  of  their  Power, 
Instead  of  an  Ally.    At  this  he's  mov'd, 
And  in  his  Royal  Bosom  glows  Revenge, 
Which  I  suspect  will  sudden  burst  and  spread 
Like  Lightning  from  the  Summer's  burning  Cloud, 
That  instant  sets  whole  Forests  in  a  Blaze. 

CHEKITAN. 

Something  like  this  I  have  indeed  perceiv'd; 
And  this  explains  what  I  but  now  beheld, 
Returning  from  the  Chace,  myself  concealed, 
Our  Royal  Father  basking  in  the  Shade, 
His  Looks  severe,  Revenge  was  in  his  Eyes, 
All  his  great  Soul  seem'd  mounted  in  his  Face, 
And  bent  on  something  hazardous  and  great. 
With  pensive  Air  he  view'd  the  Forest  round ; 
Smote  on  his  Breast  as  if  oppress'd  with  Wrongs, 
With  Indignation  stamp'd  upon  the  Ground; 


140  Representative  Plays 

Extended  then  and  shook  his  mighty  Arm, 

As  in  Defiance  of  a  coming  Foe; 

Then  like  the  hunted  Elk  he  forward  sprung, 

As  tho'  to  trample  his  Assailants  down. 

The  broken  Accents  murmur'd  from  his  Tongue, 

As  rumbling  Thunder  from  a  distant  Cloud, 

Distinct  I  heard,  "Tis  fix'd,  I'll  be  reveng'd; 

"I  will  make  War;  I'll  drown  this  Land  in  Blood." 

He  disappear'd  like  the  fresh-started  Roe 

Pursu'd  by  Hounds  o'er  rocky  Hills  and  Dales, 

That  instant  leaves  the  anxious  Hunter's  Eye; 

Such  was  his  Speed  towards  the  other  Chiefs. 

PHILIP. 

He's  gone  to  sound  their  Minds  to  Peace  and  War, 
And  learn  who'll  join  the  Hazards  in  his  Cause. 
The  Fox,  the  Bear,  the  Eagle,  Otter,  Wolf, 
And  other  valiant  Princes  of  the  Empire, 
Have  late  resorted  hither  for  some  End 
Of  common  Import.    Time  will  soon  reveal 
Their  secret  Counsels  and  their  fix'd  Decrees. 
Peace  has  its  Charms  for  those  who  love  their  Ease, 
But  active  Souls  like  mine  delight  in  Blood. 

CHEKITAN. 

Should  War  be  wag'd,  what  Discords  may  we  fear 
Among  ourselves?  The  powerful  Mohawk  King 
Will  ne'er  consent  to  fight  against  the  English, 
Nay,  more,  will  join  them  as  firm  Ally, 
And  influence  other  Chiefs  by  his  Example, 
To  muster  all  their  Strength  against  our  Father. 
Fathers  perhaps  will  fight  against  their  Sons, 
And  nearest  Friends  pursue  each  other's  Lives; 
Blood,  Murder,  Death,  and  Horror  will  be  rife, 
Where  Peace  and  Love,  and  Friendship  triumph  now. 

PHILIP. 

Such  stale  Conjectures  smell  of  Cowardice. 
Our  Father's  Temper  shews  us  the  reverse: 
All  Danger  he  defies,  and,  once  resolv'd, 
No  Arguments  will  move  him  to  relent, 
No  Motives  change  his  Purpose  of  Revenge, 


Pon  teach  141 

No  Prayers  prevail  upon  him  to  delay 

The  Execution  of  his  fix'd  Design: 

Like  the  starv'd  Tyger  in  Pursuit  of  Prey, 

No  Opposition  will  retard  his  Course; 

Like  the  wing'd  Eagle  that  looks  down  on  Clouds, 

All  Hindrances  are  little  in  his  Eye, 

And  his  great  Mind  knows  not  the  Pain  of  Fear. 

CHEKITAN. 

Such  Hurricanes  of  Courage  often  lead 
To  Shame  and  Disappointment  in  the  End, 
And  tumble  blindfold  on  their  own  Disgrace. 
True  Valour's  slow,  deliberate,  and  cool, 
Considers  well  the  End,  the  Way,  the  Means, 
And  weighs  each  Circumstance  attending  them. 
Imaginary  Dangers  it  detects, 
And  guards  itself  against  all  real  Evils. 
But  here  Tenesco  comes  with  Speed  important; 
His  Looks  and  Face  presage  us  something  new. 

TENESCO. 

Hail,  noble  Youth!  The  News  of  your  Return 
And  great  Success  has  reach'd  your  Father's  Ears. 
Great  is  his  Joy;  but  something  more  important 
Seems  to  rest  heavy  on  his  anxious  Mind, 
And  he  commands  your  Presence  at  his  Cabin. 

PHILIP. 

We  will  attend  his  Call  with  utmost  Speed, 
Nor  wait  Refreshment  after  our  Day's  Toil.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.   PONTEACH'S  Cabin. 
PONTEACH,  PHILIP,  CHEKITAN,  and  TENESCO. 

PONTEACH. 

My  Sons,  and  trusty  Counsellor  Tenesco, 

As  the  sweet  smelling  Rose,  when  yet  a  Bud, 

Lies  close  conceal'd,  till  Time  and  the  Sun's  Warmth 

Hath  swell'd,  matur'd,  and  brought  it  forth  to  View, 

So  these  my  Purposes  I  now  reveal 

Are  to  be  kept  with  You,  on  pain  of  Death, 


I42  Representative  Plays 

Till  Time  hath  ripen'd  my  aspiring  Plan, 

And  Fortune's  Sunshine  shall  disclose  the  Whole; 

Or  should  we  fail,  and  Fortune  prove  perverse, 

Let  it  be  never  known  how  far  we  fail'd, 

Lest  Fools  shou'd  triumph,  or  our  Foes  rejoice. 

TENESCO. 

The  Life  of  Great  Designs  is  Secrecy, 
And  in  Affairs  of  State  'tis  Honour's  Guard; 
For  Wisdom  cannot  form  a  Scheme  so  well, 
But  Fools  will  laugh  if  it  should  prove  abortive; 
And  our  Designs  once  known,  our  Honour's  made 
Dependent  on  the  Fickleness  of  Fortune. 

PHILIP. 

What  may  your  great  and  secret  Purpose  be, 
That  thus  requires  Concealment  in  its  Birth? 

PONTEACH. 

To  raise  the  Hatchet  from  its  short  Repose, 
Brighten  its  Edge,  and  stain  it  deep  with  Blood ; 
To  scourge  my  proud,  insulting,  haughty  Foes, 
To  enlarge  my  Empire,  which  will  soon  be  yours: 
Your  Interest,  Glory,  Grandeur,  I  consult, 
And  therefore  hope  with  Vigour  you'll  pursue 
And  execute  whatever  I  command. 

CHEKITAN. 

When  we  refuse  Obedience  to  your  Will, 
We  are  not  worthy  to  be  call'd  your  Sons. 

PHILIP. 

If  we  inherit  not  our  Father's  Valour, 
We  never  can  deserve  to  share  his  Empire. 

TENESCO. 

Spoke  like  yourselves,  the  Sons  of  Ponteach ; 
Strength,  Courage,  and  Obedience  form  the  Soldier, 
And  the  firm  Base  of  all  true  Greatness  lay. 

PONTEACH. 

Our  Empire  now  is  large,  our  Forces  strong, 
Our  Chiefs  are  wise,  our  Warriors  valiant  Men; 
We  all  are  furnish'd  with  the  best  of  Arms, 


Ponteach  143 

And  all  things  requisite  to  curb  a  Foe; 

And  now's  our  Time,  if  ever,  to  secure 

Our  Country,  Kindred,  Empire,  all  that's  dear, 

From  these  Invaders  of  our  Rights,  the  English, 

And  set  their  Bounds  towards  the  rising  Sun. 

Long  have  I  seen  with  a  suspicious  Eye 

The  Strength  and  growing  Numbers  of  the  French; 

Their  Forts  and  Settlements  I've  view'd  as  Snakes 

Of  mortal  Bite,  bound  by  the  Winter  Frost, 

Which  in  some  future  warm  reviving  Day 

Would  stir  and  hiss,  and  spit  their  Poison  forth, 

And  spread  Destruction  through  our  happy  Land. 

Where  are  we  now?  The  French  are  all  subdued, 

But  who  are  in  their  Stead  become  our  Lords? 

A  proud,  imperious,  churlish,  haughty  Band. 

The  French  familiarized  themselves  with  us, 

Studied  our  Tongue,  and  Manners,  wore  our  Dress, 

Married  our  Daughters,  and  our  Sons  their  Maids, 

Dealt  honestly,  and  well  supplied  our  Wants, 

Used  no  One  ill,  and  treated  with  Respect 

Our  Kings,  our  Captains,  and  our  aged  Men ; 

Call'd  us  their  Friends,  nay,  what  is  more,  their  Children, 

And  seem'd  like  Fathers  anxious  for  our  Welfare. 

Whom  see  we  now?  their  haughty  Conquerors 

Possess'd  of  every  Fort,  and  Lake,  and  Pass, 

Big  with  their  Victories  so  often  gain'd ; 

On  us  they  look  with  deep  Contempt  and  Scorn, 

Are  false,  deceitful,  knavish,  insolent; 

Nay,  think  us  conquered,  and  our  Country  theirs, 

Without  a  Purchase,  or  ev'n  asking  for  it. 

With  Pleasure  I  wou'd  call  their  King  my  Friend, 

Yea,  honour  and  obey  him  as  my  Father; 

I'd  be  content,  would  he  keep  his  own  Sea, 

And  leave  these  distant  Lakes  and  Streams  to  us; 

Nay,  I  would  pay  him  Homage,  if  requested, 

And  furnish  Warriors  to  support  his  Cause. 

But  thus  to  lose  my  Country  and  my  Empire, 

To  be  a  Vassal  to  his  low  Commanders, 

Treated  with  disrespect  and  public  Scorn 

By  Knaves,  by  Miscreants,  Creatures  of  his  Power; 

Can  this  become  a  King  like  Ponteach, 


144  Representative  Plays 

Whose  Empire's  measured  only  by  the  Sun? 
No,  I'll  assert  my  Right,  the  Hatchet  raise, 
And  drive  these  Britons  hence  like  frighted  Deer, 
Destroy  their  Forts,  and  make  them  rue  the  Day 
That  to  our  fertile  Land  they  found  the  Way. 

TENESCO. 

No  Contradiction  to  your  great  Design ; 
But  will  not  such  Proceeding  injure  us? 
Where  is  our  Trade  and  Commerce  to  be  carry 'd? 
For  they're  possess'd  of  all  the  Country  round, 
Or  whence  Supplies  of  Implements  for  War? 

PONTEACH. 

Whence?    Take  them  from  our  conquered  running  Foes. 
Their  Fortresses  are  Magazines  of  Death, 
Which  we  can  quickly  turn  against  themselves; 
And  when  they're  driven  to  their  destin'd  Bounds, 
Their  Love  of  Gain  will  soon  renew  their  Trade. 
The  heartless  French,  whene'er  they  see  us  conquer, 
Will  join  their  little  Force  to  help  us  on. 
Nay,  many  of  their  own  brave  trusty  Soldiers, 
In  Hope  of  Gain,  will  give  us  their  Assistance; 
For  Gain's  their  great  Commander,  and  will  lead  them 
Where  their  brave  Generals  cannot  force  their  March: 
Some  have  engag'd,  when  they  see  hope  of  Plunder, 
In  sly  Disguise  to  kill  their  Countrymen. 

CHEKITAN. 

These  Things  indeed  are  promising  and  fair, 
And  seem  a  Prelude  to  our  full  Success. 
But  will  not  many  Indian  Chiefs  refuse 
To  join  the  Lists,  and  hold  themselves  oblig'd 
T'  assist  the  Foe  when  hardly  press'd  by  us? 

PONTEACH. 

I've  sounded  all  their  Minds;  there's  but  a  few 
That  are  not  warm  and  hearty  in  our  Cause, 
And  those  faint  Hearts  we'll  punish  at  our  Leisure: 
For  hither  tends  my  Purpose;   to  subdue 
The  Tribes  who  now  their  annual  Homage  pay 
To  the  imperious  haughty  Mohawk  Chief, 


Pon  teach  145 

• 

Whose  Pride  and  Insolence  'tis  Time  to  curb. 
He  ever  boasts  the  Greatness  of  his  Empire, 
The  Swiftness,  Skill  and  Valour  of  his  Warriors, 
His  former  Conquests,  and  his  fresh  Exploits, 
The  Terror  of  his  Arms  in  distant  Lands, 
And  on  a  Footing  puts  himself  with  me, 
For  Wisdom  to  contrive,  and  Power  to  do. 
Such  a  proud  Rival  must  not  breathe  the  Air; 
I'll  die  in  fighting,  or  I'll  reign  alone 
O'er  every  Indian  Nation,  Tribe,  and  Chief. 
But  this  in  solemn  Silence  we  conceal, 
Till  they're  drawn  in  to  fight  the  common  Foe, 
Then  from  my  Face,  the  sly  Disguise  I'll  cast, 
And  shew  them  Ponteach  to  their  Surprise. 

TENESCO. 

Thy  Plan  is  wise,  and  may  Success  attend  it; 
May  all  the  warlike  numerous  Tribes  unite, 
Nor  cease  to  conquer  while  thou  hast  a  Foe ! 
Then  may  they  join  and  own  thee  for  their  Sovereign, 
Pay  full  Submission  to  thy  scepter'd  Arm, 
And  universal  Empire  by  thy  own ! 

CHEKITAN. 

Would  you  the  Mohawk  Emperor  displease, 
And  wage  a  bloody  War,  by  which  you  made 
Him  and  his  num'rous  Tribes  your  certain  Foes? 

PONTEACH. 

Most  of  his  Tribes  will  welcome  the  Proposal ; 
For  long  their  galled  Necks  have  felt  the  Yoke, 
Long  wish'd  for  Freedom  from  his  partial  Sway, 
In  favour  of  the  proud  incroaching  Britons. 
Nay,  they  have  oft,  in  spite  of  his  Displeasure, 
Rush'd  forth  like  Wolves  upon  their  naked  Borders, 
And  now,  like  Tygers  broken  from  their  Chains, 
They'll  glut  themselves,  and  revel  in  their  Blood. 

PHILIP. 

Myself  will  undertake  to  make  even  Hendrick 
Our  zealous  Friend  against  the  common  Foe; 
His  strong  Attachment  to  them  I'll  dissolve, 
And  make  him  rage,  and  thirst  for  Vengeance  on  them. 


146  Representative  Plays 

• 

PONTEACH. 

This  would  be  doing  Honour  to  thyself, 

And  make  thee  worthy  of  thy  Father's  Crown. 

The  secret  Means  I  will  not  now  inquire, 

Nor  doubt  but  thus  engag'd  you  will  perform. 

The  Chiefs  in  part  are  knowing  to  my  Purpose, 

And  think  of  nought  but  War,  and  Blood,  and  Plunder, 

Till  in  full  Council  we  declare  our  Pleasure. 

But  first  my  last  Night's  Dream  I  will  relate, 

Which  much  disturb'd  my  weary  anxious  Mind, 

And  must  portend  some  signal  grand  Event 

Of  Good  or  Evil  both  to  me  or  mine. 

On  yonder  Plain  I  saw  the  lordly  Elk 

Snuffing  the  empty  Air  in  seeming  Sport, 

Tossing  his  Head  aloft,  as  if  in  Pride 

Of  his  great  Bulk  and  nervous  active  Limbs, 

And  Scorn  of  every  Beast  that  haunts  the  Wood. 

With  mighty  Stride  he  travelled  to  and  fro, 

And  as  he  mov'd  his  Size  was  still  increas'd, 

Till  his  wide  Branches  reached  above  the  Trees, 

And  his  extended  Trunk  across  the  Plain. 

The  other  Beasts  beheld  with  wild  Amaze, 

Stood  trembling  round,  nor  dare  they  to  approach 

Till  the  fierce  Tyger  yell'd  the  loud  Alarm, 

When  Bears,  Cats,  Wolves,  Panthers,  and  Porcupines, 

And  other  Beasts  of  Prey,  with  Force  united 

And  savage  Rage,  attack'd  the  common  Foe. 

But  as  the  busking  Bull,  when  Summer  Flies, 

With  keenest  Sting  disturb  the  grazing  Herd, 

Stands  careless  in  some  shady  cool  Retreat, 

And  from  his  Sides  sweeps  the  envenom'd  Mites, 

Or  shakes  them  with  a  Stamp  into  the  Dust; 

So  he  unmov'd  amidst  their  Clamours  stood, 

Trampled  and  spurn'd  them  with  his  Hoofs  and  Horns, 

Till  all  dispers'd  in  wild  Disorder  fled, 

And  left  him  Master  of  th'  extended  Plain. 

TENESCO. 

This  Dream  no  doubt  is  full  of  some  great  Meaning, 
And  in  it  bears  the  Fate  of  your  Design, 
But  whether  good  or  ill,  to  me  's  a  Secret. 


Ponteach  147 

PHILIP. 

It  ne'er  was  counted  ill  to  dream  of  Elks, 
But  always  thought  portentous  of  Success, 
Of  happy  Life,  and  Victories  in  War, 
Or  Fortune  good  when  we  attempt  the  Chace. 

CHEKITAN. 

Such  is  the  common  Say;  but  here  the  Size 
And  all  the  Circumstances  are  uncommon, 
And  therefore  can  contain  no  common  Meaning: 
I  fear  these  Things  portend  no  Good  to  us, 
That  Mischiefs  lurk  like  Serpents  in  the  Grass, 
Whose  pois'nous  deadly  Bite  precedes  all  Warning. 
That  this  Design  will  end  in  mighty  Ruin 
To  us  and  ours,  Discord  among  our  Friends, 
And  Triumph  to  our  Foes. 

PHILIP. 

A  valiant  Hero! 

Thou  always  wast  a  Coward,  and  hated  War, 
And  lov'st  to  loll  on  the  soft  Lap  of  Peace. 
Thou  art  a  very  Woman  in  thy  Heart, 
And  talk'st  of  Snakes  and  Bugbears  in  the  Dark, 
Till  all  is  Horror  and  Amaze  about  thee, 
And  even  thy  own  Shadow  makes  thee  tremble. 

CHEKITAN. 

Is  there  no  Courage  in  delib'rate  Wisdom? 
Is  all  rank  Cowardice  but  Fire  and  Fury? 
Is  it  all  womanish  to  re-consider 
And  weigh  the  Consequences  of  our  Actions, 
Before  we  desperately  rush  upon  them? 
Let  me  then  be  the  Coward,  a  mere  Woman, 
Mine  be  the  Praise  of  Coolness,  yours  of  Rage. 

PONTEACH. 

Peace,  Peace,  my  Sons,  nor  let  this  casual  Strife 
Divide  your  Hearts;  both  mean  the  common  Good; 
Go  Hand  in  Hand  to  conquer  and  promote  it. 
I'll  to  our  worthy  Doctor  and  the  Priest, 
Who  for  our  Souls'  Salvation  come  from  France; 
They  sure  can  solve  the  Mysteries  of  Fate, 


148  Representative  Plays 

And  all  the  Secrets  of  a  Dream  explain; 
Mean  while,  Tenesco,  warn  the  other  Chiefs 
That  they  attend  my  Call  within  an  Hour. 

[Exeunt  PONTEACH  and  TENESCO. 

PHILIP. 

My  Warmth  perhaps  has  carried  me  too  far, 
But  it's  not  in  me  to  be  cool  and  backward 
To  act  or  speak  when  Kingdoms  are  the  Prize. 
My  Blood  runs  high  at  the  sweet  Sound  of  Empire, 
Such  as  our  Father's  Plan  ensures  to  us, 
And  I'm  impatient  of  the  least  Delay. 

CHEKITAN. 

Thy  Fire  thou  hast  a  Right  to  style  a  Virtue; 
Heat  is  our  Friend  when  kept  within  due  Bounds, 
But  if  unbridled  and  allowed  to  rage, 
It  burns  and  blisters,  torments  and  consumes, 
And,  Torrent-like,  sweeps  every  Comfort  by. 
Think  if  our  Father's  Plan  should  prove  abortive, 
Our  Troops  repuls'd,  or  in  th'  Encounter  slain, 
Where  are  our  conquer'd  Kingdoms  then  to  share, 
Where  are  our  Vict'ries,  Trophies,  Triumphs,  Crowns, 
That  dazzle  in  thy  Eye,  and  swell  thy  Heart; 
That  nerve  thy  Arm,  and  wing  thy  Feet  to  War 
With  this  impetuous  Violence  and  Speed? 
Crest-fallen  then,  our  native  Empire  lost, 
In  captive  Chains  we  drag  a  wretched  Life, 
Or  fly  inglorious  from  the  conquering  Foe 
To  barren  Mountains  from  this  fertile  Land, 
There  to  repent  our  Folly  when  too  late, 
In  Anguish  mourn,  and  curse  our  wretched  Fate. 

PHILIP. 

But  why  so  much  of  Mischiefs  that  may  happen? 

These  are  mere  Possibilities  at  most; 

Creatures  of  Thought,  which  ne'er  can  be  Objections, 

In  valiant  Minds,  to  any  great  Attempt; 

They're  empty  Echoes  of  a  tim'rous  Soul, 

Like  Bubbles  driv'n  by  the  tempestuous  Storm, 

The  Breath  of  Resolution  sweeps  them  off. 


Ponteach  149 


Nor  dost  thou  judge  them  solid  from  thy  Heart, 

I  know  the  secret  Motive  in  thy  Breast, 

Thus  to  oppose  our  Father's  great  Design, 

And  from  an  Undertaking  to  dissuade, 

In  which  thou'lt  share  the  Profit  and  the  Glory. 

Hendrick,  the  King  of  Mohawks,  hath  a  Daughter, 

With  whom  I  saw  you  dallying  in  the  Shade, 

And  thought  you  then  a  Captive  to  her  Charms. 

The  bright  Monelia  hangs  upon  thy  Heart, 

And  softens  all  the  Passions  of  thy  Soul ; 

Her  thou  think'st  lost  should  we  proclaim  a  War, 

In  which  the  King  her  Father  will  not  join. 

CHEKITAN. 

What  if  I  have  a  Value  for  Monelia, 
Is  it  a  Crime?   Does  she  not  merit  Love 
From  all  who  see  her  move,  or  hear  her  speak? 

PHILIP. 

True,  she  is  engaging,  has  a  charming  Air; 

And  if  thy  Love  is  fix'd,  I  will  assist  it, 

And  put  thee  in  Possession  of  the  Joy 

That  thou  desirest  more  than  Crowns  and  Empire. 

CHEKITAN. 

As  how,  dear  Philip?  Should  we  wage  a  War, 
Which  Hendrick  disapproves,  the  Prize  is  lost. 
Not  Empires  then  could  make  Monelia  mine; 
All  Hopes  are  dash'd  upon  that  fatal  Rock; 
Nor  Gold,  nor  Prayers,  nor  Tears,  nor  Promises, 
Nor  all  the  Engin'ry  of  Love  at  Work, 
Could  save  a  single  Moment  of  my  Joy. 

PHILIP. 

Yes,  I  will  save  it  all,  and  make  her  thine, 

Act  but  thy  Part,  and  do  as  I  prescribe, 

In  Peace  or  War  thou  shalt  possess  the  Prize. 

CHEKITAN. 

Thy  Words  revive  my  half-despairing  Heart. 
What  must  I  act?  or  which  Way  must  I  turn? 


15°  Representative  Plays 

I'll  brave  all  Dangers,  every  111  defy, 
Risk  Life  itself,  to  call  Monelia  mine. 
Help  me,  my  Philip,  and  I'll  be  thy  Slave, 
Resign  my  Share  of  Empire  to  thy  Hand, 
And  lay  a  Claim  to  nothing  but  Monelia. 

PHILIP. 

Rewards  I  do  not  ask;   I  am  thy  Brother, 

And  hold  my  Kindness  to  thee  as  a  Debt. 

Thou  know'st  I  have  ^ngag'd  to  bring  King  Hendrick 

To  join  the  Lists,  and  fight  against  our  Foes, 

To  rouse  him  to  Revenge,  and  Rage,  and  War, 

And  make  him  zealous  in  the  common  Cause. 

Nay,  with  uncommon  Fury  he  shall  rave, 

And  urge  his  Warriors  on  to  Blood  and  Murder. 

When  this  is  done,  Monelia  may  be  thine, 

Hendrick  will  court  Alliance  to  our  Tribe, 

And  joy  to  call  great  Ponteach's  Son  his  own. 

CHEKITAN. 

But  should  you  fail  in  these  Attempts,  and  he 
Prove  obstinately  fix'd  against  the  War, 
Where's  then  Monelia?  where  is  Chekitan? 
My  Hopes  are  blasted,  all  my  Joys  are  fled, 
Like  the  vain  Phantoms  of  a  Midnight  Dream, 
Are  scattered  like  the  Dust  before  a  Whirlwind, 
And  all  my  Soul  is  left  a  Void  for  Pain, 
Vexation,  Madness,  Frenzy,  and  Despair, 
And  all  the  Pains  of  disappointed  Love. 
Better  I  ne'er  had  flattered  my  fond  Heart, 
Nor  sooth'd  my  Mind  with  Prospects  of  my  Joy, 
Than  thus  to  perish  on  the  Point  of  Hope. 

PHILIP. 

Leave  all  to  me;  I've  so  concerted  Matters, 
That  I  defy  ev'n  Fate  to  disappoint  me. 
Exert  thyself,  and  to  Monelia  go, 
Before  th'  assembled  Chiefs  in  Council  meet; 
Urge  it  to  her,  and  to  her  Brother  Torax, 
That  should  their  Father  prove  refractory, 
Withdraw  himself,  and  order  his  Domestics 


Pon  teach  151 

To  hasten  home  at  News  of  our  Design; 

Urge  it,  I  say,  to  them;  Torax  loves  War; 

To  linger  here  in  Hopes  of  his  Return, 

Which  tell  them  I'll  effect  ere  twice  the  Sun 

Has  run  the  Circuit  of  his  daily  Race. 

Here  they  may  loiter  careless,  range  the  Woods, 

As  tho'  the  Noise  of  War  had  not  been  heard. 

This  will  give  full  Success  to  both  our  Wishes: 

Thou 'It  gain  the  Prize  of  Love,  and  I  of  Wrath, 

In  favour  to  our  Family  and  State. 

Thou'lt  tame  the  Turtle,  I  shall  rouse  the  Tyger; 

The  one  will  soothe  thy  Soul  to  soft  Repose, 

The  other  prove  a  Terror  to  our  Foes. 

CHEKITAN. 

I  see  the  subtle  Argument  thou'lt  use, 

And  how  thou'lt  work  upon  the  old  King's  Weakness, 

Thou'lt  set  his  strong  Affection  for  his  Children 

At  War  against  his  Kindness  for  our  Foes, 

By  urging  their  Attachment  to  our  Cause, 

That  they'll  endure  ev'n  Banishment  and  Death, 

Rather  than  cease  to  be  our  steadfast  Friends. 

PHILIP. 

All  this  I'll  urge,  nay,  more,  I  will  convince  him, 
These  Foes  to  us  can  be  no  Friends  to  him; 
I'll  thunder  in  his  Ears  their  growing  Power, 
Their  Villainies  and  Cheats  upon  his  Subjects: 
That  their  fair  Shew  of  Love  is  foul  Disguise; 
That  in  their  Hearts  they  hate  the  Name  of  Indians, 
And  court  his  Friendship  only  for  their  Profit; 
That  when  no  longer  he  subserves  their  Ends, 
He  may  go  whistle  up  some  other  Friends. 

CHEKITAN. 

This  must  alarm  and  bring  him  to  our  Mind. 

I'll  hasten  to  my  Charge  with  utmost  Speed, 

Strain  every  Nerve,  and  every  Power  exert; 

Plead,  promise,  swear  like  any  Christian  Trader; 

But  I'll  detain  them  till  our  Ends  are  answer'd, 

And  you  have  won  their  Father  to  our  Purpose.  [Exit. 


152  Representative  Plays 

PHILIP  [solus]. 

Oh !  what  a  wretched  Thing  is  a  Man  in  Love ! 
All  Fear— all  Hope— all  Diffidence— all  Faith- 
Distrusts  the  greatest  Strength,  depends  on  Straws — 
Soften'd,  unprovident,  disarm'd,  unman'd, 
Led  blindfold ;  every  Power  denies  its  Aid, 
And  every  Passion's  but  a  Slave  to  this; 
Honour,  Revenge,  Ambition,  Interest,  all 
Upon  its  Altar  bleed — Kingdoms  and  Crowns 
Are  slighted  and  condemn'd,  and  all  the  Ties 
Of  Nature  are  dissolved  by  this  poor  Passion : 
Ojice  have  I  felt  its  Poison  in  my  Heart, 
When  this  same  Chekitan  a  Captive  led 
The  fair  Donanta  from  the  Illinois; 
I  saw,  admired,  and  lov'd  the  charming  Maid, 
And  as  a  Favour  ask'd  her  from  his  Hands, 
But  he  refus'd  and  sold  her  for  a  Slave. 
My  Love  is  dead,  but  my  Resentment  lives, 
And  now's  my  Time  to  let  the  Flame  break  forth, 
For  while  I  pay  this  ancient  Debt  of  Vengeance, 
I'll  serve  my  Country,  and  advance  myself. 
^He  loves  Monelia — Hendrick  must  be  won — 
Monelia  and  her  Brother  both  must  bleed — 
This  is  my  Vengeance  on  her  Lover's  Head — 
Then  I'll  affirm,  'twas  done  by  Englishmen — 
And  to  gain  Credit  both  with  Friends  and  Foes, 
I'll  wound  myself,  and  say  that  I  receiv'd  it 
By  striving  to  assist  them  in  the  Combat. 
This  will  rouse  Hendrick's  Wrath,  and  arm  his  Troops 
To  Blood  and  Vengeance  on  the  common  Foe. 
And  further  still  my  Profit  may  extend ; 
My  Brother's  Rage  will  lead  him  into  Danger, 
And,  he  cut  off,  the  Empire's  all  my  own. 
Thus  am  I  fix'd ;  my  Scheme  of  Goodness  laid, 
And  I'll  effect  it,  tho'  thro'  Blood  I  wade, 
To  desperate  Wounds  apply  a  desperate  Cure, 
And  to  tall  Structures  lay  Foundations  sure; 
To  Fame  and  Empire  hence  my  Course  I  bend, 
And  every  Step  I  take  shall  thither  tend. 

End  of  the  Second  Act. 


Ponteach  153 

ACT  III. 
SCENE  I.  A  Forest. 

CHEKITAN. 
[Seeing  TORAX  and  MONELIA,  coming  towards  them.] 

As  the  young  Hunter,  anxious  in  the  Chace, 

With  beating  Heart  and  quivering  Hand  espies 

The  wish'd  for  Game,  and  trembles  for  th'  Event, 

So  I  behold  the  bright  Monelia's  Steps, 

Whom  anxiously  I've  sought,  approach  this  way — 

What  shall  I  say?  or  how  shall  I  accost  her? 

It  is  a  fatal  Minute  to  mistake  in. 

The  Joy  or  Grief  of  Life  depends  upon  't; 

It  is  the  important  Crisis  of  my  Fate. 

I've  thought  a  thousand  things  to  say  and  do, 

But  know  not  which  to  say  or  do  the  first. 

Shall  I  begin  with  my  old  Tale  of  Love? 

Or  shall  I  shock  her  with  the  News  of  War? 

Must  I  put  on  the  Face  of  Joy  or  Grief? 

Seem  unconcern'd  or  full  of  Doubts  and  Fears? 

How  unprepar'd  I  am  for  the  Encounter! 

I'd  rather  stand  against  an  Host  of  Foes — 

But  she  draws  near,  and  Fate  must  guide  me  now, 

[Enter  TORAX  and  MONELIA. 
Where  tend  your  Steps  with  such  an  Air  of  Joy? 

TORAX. 

To  view  the  Beauties  of  th'  extended  Lake, 
And  on  its  mossy  Bank  recline  at  Ease, 
While  we  behold  the  Sports  of  Fish  and  Fowl, 
Which  in  this  Calm  no  doubt  will  be  diverting. 
And  these  are  new  Amusements  to  Monelia, 
She  never  saw  the  Sea  or  Lakes  before. 

CHEKITAN. 

I'm  glad  our  Country's  aught  to  give  such  Pleasure 
To  one  deservedly  so  welcome  in  it. 

MONELIA. 

That  I  am  welcome  you  have  oft  assur'd  me. 
That  I  deserve  it  you  may  be  mistaken, 


154  Representative  Plays 

The  outside  Shew,  the  Form,  the  Dress,  the  Air, 
That  please  at  first  Acquaintance,  oft  deceive  us, 
And  prove  more  Mimickers  of  true  Desert, 
Which  always  brightens  by  a  further  Trial, 
Appears  more  lovely  as  we  know  it  better, 
At  least  can  never  suffer  by  Acquaintance. 
Perhaps  then  you  To-morrow  will  despise 
What  you  esteem  To-day,  and  call  deserving. 

CHEKITAN. 

My  Love  to  you,  Monelia,  cannot  change. 
Your  Beauty,  like  the  Sun,  for  ever  pleases, 
And  like  the  Earth,  my  Love  can  never  move. 

MONELIA. 

The  Earth  itself  is  sometimes  known  to  shake, 
And  the  bright  Sun  by  Clouds  is  oft  conceal'd, 
And  gloomy  Night  succeeds  the  Smiles  of  Day; 
So  Beauty  oft  by  foulest  Faults  is  veil'd, 
And  after  one  short  Blaze  admir'd  no  more, 
Loses  its  Lustre,  drops  its  sparkling  Charms, 
The  Lover  sickens,  and  his  Passion  dies, 
Nay,  worse,  he  hates  what  he  so  doted  on. 
Time  only  proves  the  Truth  of  Worth  and  Love, 
The  one  may  be  a  Cheat,  the  other  change, 
And  Fears,  and  Jealousies,  and  mortal  Hate, 
Succeed  the  Sunshine  of  the  warmest  Passion. 

CHEKITAN. 

Have  I  not  vow'd  my  Love  to  you,  Monelia, 
And  open'd  all  the  Weakness  of  my  Heart? 
You  cannot  think  me  false  and  insincere, 
When  I  repeat  my  Vows  to  love  you  still ; 
Each  time  I  see  you  move,  or  hear  you  speak, 
It  adds  fresh  Fuel  to  the  growing  Flame. 
You're  like  the  rising  Sun,  whose  Beams  increase 
As  he  advances  upward  to  our  View; 
We  gaze  with  growing  Wonder  till  we're  blind, 
And  every  Beauty  fades  and  dies  but  his. 
Thus  shall  I  always  view  your  growing  Charm, 
And  every  Day  and  Hour  with  fresh  Delight. 


Ponteach  155 

Witness  thou  Sun  and  Moon,  and  Stars  above, 
Witness  ye  purling  Streams  and  quivering  Lakes, 
Witness  ye  Groves  and  Hills,  and  Springs  and  Plains, 
Witness  ye  Shades,  and  the  cool  Fountain,  where 
I  first  espied  the  Image  of  her  Charms, 
And  starting  saw  her  on  th'  adjacent  Bank, 
If  I  to  my  Monelia  prove  untrue. 

MONELIA. 

Hoh !  now  your  Talk  is  so  much  like  a  Christian's, 

That  I  must  be  excus'd  if  I  distrust  you, 

And  think  your  fair  Pretences  all  designing. 

I  once  was  courted  by  a  spruce  young  Blade, 

A  lac'd  Coat  Captain,  warlike,  active,  gay, 

Cockaded  Hat  and  Medal  on  his  Breast, 

And  every  thing  was  clever  but  his  Tongue; 

He  swore  he  lov'd,  O!  how  he  swore  he  lov'd, 

Call'd  on  his  God  and  Stars  to  witness  for  him, 

Wish'd  he  might  die,  be  blown  to  Hell  and  damn'd, 

If  ever  he  lov'd  woman  so  before: 

Call'd  me  his  Princess,  Charmer,  Angel,  Goddess, 

Swore  nothing  else  was  ever  half  so  pretty, 

So  dear,  so  sweet,  so  much  to  please  his  Taste, 

He  kiss'd,  he  squeez'd,  and  press'd  me  to  his  Bosom, 

Vow'd  nothing  could  abate  his  ardent  Passion, 

Swore  he  should  die,  should  drown,  or  hang  himself, 

Could  not  exist  if  I  denied  his  Suit, 

And  said  a  thousand  Things  I  cannot  Name: 

My  simple  Heart,  made  soft  by  so  much  Heat, 

Half  gave  Consent,  meaning  to  be  his  Bride. 

The  Moment  thus  unguarded,  he  embrac'd, 

And  impudently  ask'd  to  stain  my  Virtue. 

With  just  Disdain  I  push'd  him  from  my  Arms, 

And  let  him  know  he'd  kindled  my  Resentment; 

The  Scene  was  chang'd  from  Sunshine  to  a  Storm, 

Oh!  then  he  curs'd,  and  swore,  and  damn'd,  and  sunk, 

Call'd  me  proud  Bitch,  pray'd  Heav'n  to  blast  my  Soul, 

Wish'd  Furies,  Hell,  and  Devils  had  my  Body, 

To  say  no  more;  bid  me  begone  in  Haste 

Without  the  smallest  Mark  of  his  Affection.  ~ 

This  was  an  Englishman,  a  Christian  Lover. 


156  Representative  Plays 

CHEKITAN. 

Would  you  compare  an  Indian  Prince  to  those 
Whose  Trade  it  is  to  cheat,  deceive,  and  flatter? 
Who  rarely  speak  the  Meaning  of  their  Hearts? 
Whose  Tongues  are  full  of  Promises  and  Vows? 
Whose  very  Language  is  a  downright  Lie? 
Who  swear  and  call  on  Gods  when  they  mean  nothing? 
Who  call  it  complaisant,  polite  good  Breeding, 
To  say  Ten  thousand  things  they  don't  intend, 
And  tell  their  nearest  Friends  the  basest  Falsehood? 
I  know  you  cannot  think  me  so  perverse, 
Such  Baseness  dwells  not  in  an  Indian's  Heart, 
And  I'll  convince  you  that  I  am  no  Christian. 

MONELIA. 

Then  do  not  swear,  nor  vow,  nor  promise  much, 
An  honest  Heart  needs  none  of  this  Parade; 
Its  Sense  steals  softly  to  the  list'ning  Ear, 
And  Love,  like  a  rich  Jewel  we  most  value, 
When  we  ourselves  by  Chance  espy  its  Blaze 
And  none  proclaims  where  we  may  find  the  Prize. 
Mistake  me  not,  I  don't  impeach  your  Honour, 
Nor  think  you  undeserving  my  Esteem; 
When  our  Hands  join  you  may  repeat  your  Love, 
But  save  these  Repetitions  from  the  Tongue. 

CHEKITAN. 

Forgive  me,  if  my  Fondness  is  too  pressing, 
'Tis  Fear,  'tis  anxious  Fear,  that  makes  it  so. 

MONELIA. 

What  do  you  fear?  have  I  not  said  enough? 

Or  would  you  have  me  swear  some  Christian  Oath? 

CHEKITAN. 

No,  but  I  fear  our  Love  will  be  oppos'd, 
Your  Father  will  forbid  our  Hands  to  join. 

MONELIA. 

I  cannot  think  it;  you  are  Ponteach's  Son, 
Heir  to  an  Empire  large  and  rich  as  his. 


Pon  teach  157 

CHEKITAN. 

True;  but  your  Father  is  a  Friend  to  Britons, 
And  mine  a  Foe,  and  now  is  fix'd  on  War, 
Immediate  War:  This  Day  the  Chiefs  assemble, 
To  raise  the  Hatchet,  and  to  arm  the  Troops. 

MONELIA. 

Then  I  must  leave  your  Realm,  and  bid  Adieu, 
In  spite  of  your  fond  Passion,  or  my  own;    ->>. 
For  I  can  never  disoblige  my  Father, 
Though  by  it  I  were  sure  to  gain  an  Empire.     / 

CHEKITAN. 

Then  Chekitan's  undone,  undone  for  ever. 
Unless  your  Father  by  kind  Fate  is  mov'd 
To  be  our  Friend,  and  join  the  Lists  with  mine. 

TORAX. 

Nothing  would  please  me  better ;  I  love  War, 
And  think  it  time  to  curb  the  English  Pride, 
And  give  a  check  to  their  increasing  Power. 
The  Land  is  ravag'd  by  their  numerous  Bands, 
And  every  Day  they're  growing  more  our  Lords. 

CHEKITAN. 
Are  you  sincere,  or  do  you  feign  this  Speech? 

TORAX. 

Indeed  my  Tongue  does  not  bely  my  Heart; 
And  but  my  Father's  wrong-turn'd  Policy 
Forbids,  I'd  instant  join  in  War  with  you, 
And  help  to  set  new  Limits  to  their  Power. 

CHEKITAN. 

'Tis  plain,  if  they  proceed,  nor  you  nor  I 
Shall  rule  an  Empire,  or  possess  a  Crown, 
Our  Countries  all  will  soon  become  a  Prey 
To  Strangers;  we  perhaps  shall  be  their  Slaves. 
But  will  your  Father  be  convinc'd  of  this? 

TORAX. 

I  doubt  he'll  not.    The  good  old  Man  esteems 
And  dotes  upon  them  as  most  worthy  Friends; 


158  Representative  Plays 

I've  told  him  often  that  he  cherish'd  Serpents, 
To  bite  his  Children,  and  destroy  his  Friends. 
But  this  he  calls  the  Folly  of  my  Youth, 
Bids  me  be  silent,  show  Respect  to  Age, 
Nor  sow  Sedition  in  my  Father's  Empire. 

CHEKITAN. 

Stiff  as  he  is,  he  yet  may  be  subdued ; 

And  I've  a  Power  prepar'd  that  will  attack  him. 

Should  he  refuse  his  Aid  to  our  Design, 

Retire  himself,  and  bid  his  Troops  to  follow, 

Yet  Philip  stands  engag'd  for  his  Return, 

Ere  twice  the  Sun  has  ris'n  and  blest  the  Earth. 

Philip  is  eloquent,  and  so  prepar'd, 

He  cannot  fail  to  bend  him  to  our  Purpose. 

You  and  Monelia  have  a  Part  to  act; 

To  linger  here,  should  he  in  Haste  retreat 

Till  Philip  follows  and  employs  his  Force. 

Your  Stay  will  add  new  Life  to  the  Design, 

And  be  of  mighty  Weight  to  gain  Success. 

MONELIA. 

How  shall  we  tarry  midst  the  Noise  of  War, 
In  Danger  of  our  Lives  from  Friends  and  Foes; 
This  will  be  deem'd  a  Madness  by  our  Father, 
And  will  deserve  his  most  severe  Rebuke. 

CHEKITAN. 

Myself  will  be  a  Sponsor  for  your  Safety ; 
And  should  your  Father  baffle  our  Attempts, 
Conduct  you  home  from  all  the  Noise  of  War, 
Where  may  you  long  in  Peace  and  Plenty  smile, 
While  I  return  to  mourn  my  hapless  Fate. 
But  should  Success  attend  on  Philip's  Purpose, 
Your  Father  will  not  discommend  your  Stay, 
But  smiling  give  new  Vigour  to  the  War; 
Which  being  ended,  and  our  Foes  subdu'd, 
The  happy  Fruits  of  Peace  succeed  to  all, 
But  we  shall  taste  the  greater  Sweets  of  Love. 

TORAX. 
The  Purport  of  our  Stay  is  hid  from  me; 


Ponteach  1 59 

But  Philip  's  subtle,  crafty  as  the  Fox. 
We'll  give  full  Scope  to  his  enticing  Art, 
And  help  him  what  we  can  to  take  the  Prey. 

MONELIA. 

In  your  Protection  then  I  trust  myself, 
Nor  will  delay  beyond  th'  appointed  Term, 
Lest  anxious  Fears  possess  our  Father's  Heart, 
Or  Mischiefs  happen  that  incur  his  Anger. 

TORAX. 

It  is  agreed;  we  now  pursue  our  Walk; 

Mean  time  consult  what  else  may  be  of  Use, 

You're  pain'd  with  Love,  and  I'm  in  Pain  for  War.          [Exeunt. 

CHEKITAN  [solus]. 

The  Game  is  sure — Her  Brother's  on  my  Side — 
Her  Brother  and  my  own — My  Force  is  strong — 
But  could  her  Father  now  be  rous'd  to  War, 
How  should  I  triumph  and  defy  even  Fate? 
But  Fortune  favours  all  advent'rous  Souls: 
I'll  now  to  Philip;  tell  him  my  Success, 
And  rouse  up  every  Spark  of  Vigour  in  him: 
He  will  conceive  fresh  Hopes,  and  be  more  zealous. 


SCENE  II.   PONTEACH'S  Cabin. 
PONTEACH,  an  Indian  CONJURER,  and  French  PRIEST. 

PONTEACH. 

Well !  have  you  found  the  Secret  of  my  Dream, 
By  all  your  Cries,  and  Howls,  and  Sweats,  and  Prayers? 
Or  is  the  Meaning  still  conceal'd  from  Man, 
And  only  known  to  Genii  and  the  Gods? 

CONJURER. 

Two  Hours  I've  lain  within  the  sultry  Stove, 
While  Floods  of  Sweat  ran  trickling  from  my  Skin; 
With  Howls  and  Cries  and  all  the  Force  of  Sound 
Have  I  invok'd  your  Genius  and  my  own, 
Smote  on  my  Breast,  and  beat  against  my  Head, 


160  Representative  Plays 

To  move  an  Answer,  and  the  Secret  learn. 

But  all  in  vain,  no  Answer  can  I  have, 

Till  I  first  learn  what  secret  Purposes 

And  great  Designs  are  brooding  in  your  Mind. 

PRIEST. 

At  our  pure  Virgin's  Shrine  I've  bowed  my  Knees, 
And  there  in  fervent  Prayer  pour'd  out  my  Soul; 
Call'd  on  Saint  Peter,  call'd  on  all  the  Saints 
That  know  the  Secrets  both  of  Heaven  and  Earth, 
And  can  reveal  what  Gods  themselves  can  do: 
I've  us'd  the  Arts  of  our  most  holy  Mother, 
Which  I  receiv'd  when  I  forsook  the  World, 
And  gave  myself  to  Holiness  and  Heaven; 
But  can't  obtain  the  Secret  of  your  Dream, 
Till  I  first  know  the  Secrets  of  your  Heart, 
Or  what  you  hope  or  wish  to  be  effected. 
'Tis  on  these  Terms  we  learn  the  Will  of  God, 
What  Good  or  111  awaits  on  Kings  or  Kingdoms; 
And  without  this,  St.  Peter's  Self  can't  tell, 
But  at  a  Dream  like  yours  would  be  confounded. 

PONTEACH. 

You're  well  agreed — Our  Gods  are  much  alike — 

And  I  suspect  both  Rogues — What!  won't  they  tell! 

Should  they  betray  my  Scheme,  the  whole  is  blown. 

And  yet  I  fain  would  know.    I'll  charge  them  first.  [Aside. 

Look  here;  if  I  disclose  a  Secret  to  you, 

Tell  it  to  none  but  silent  honest  Gods; 

Death  to  you  both,  if  you  reveal  to  Men. 

BOTH. 

We  will,  we  will,  the  Gods  alone  shall  know. 
PONTEACH. 

Know  then  that  I  have  fix'd  on  speedy  War, 
To  drive  these  new  Encroachers  from  my  Country. 
For  this  I  meant  t'  engage  our  several  Tribes, 
And  when  our  Foes  are  driven  to  their  Bounds, 
That  we  may  stand  and  hold  our  Rights  secure, 
Unite  our  Strength  under  one  common  Head, 


Ponteach  161 

Whom  all  these  Petty  Kings  must  own  their  Lord, 
Not  even  Hendrick's  self  shall  be  excused. 
This  is  my  Purpose.    Learn  if  it  shall  prosper, 
Or  will  it  end  in  Infamy  and  Shame? 

CONJURER. 

[Smiting  on  his  breast,  groaning,  and  muttering  in  his  cloak  or 
blanket,  falls  down  upon  the  ground,  beats  his  head  against 
it,  and  pretends  to  listen:  then  rises,  and  says  with  a  rumbling 
hideous  voice:] 

Success  and  Victory  shall  attend  your  Arms; 

You  are  the  mighty  Elk  that  none  can  conquer, 

And  all  the  Tribes  shall  own  you  for  their  King. 

Thus,  say  the  Genii,  does  your  Dream  intend. 

PRIEST. 
[Looking   up  to  Heaven  in  a  praying  posture  for  a  small  spacet 

says:  ] 

Had  I  but  known  you  was  resolv'd  on  War, 
And  War  against  those  Heretics  the  English, 
I  need  not  to  have  ask'd  a  God  or  Saint 
To  signify  the  Import  of  your  Dream. 
Your  great  Design  shall  have  a  prosperous  End, 
'Tis  by  the  Gods  approv'd,  and  must  succeed. 
Angels  and  Saints  are  dancing  now  in  Heaven: 
Your  Enemies  are  theirs,  are  hated  by  them, 
And  they'll  protect  and  help  you  as  their  Champion, 
That  fights  their  Battles,  and  defends  their  Cause. 
Our  great  St.  Peter  is  himself  a  Warrior; 
He  drew  his  Sword  against  such  Infidels, 
And  now,  like  him,  you'll  gain  immortal  Honour, 
And  Gods  in  Heaven  and  Saints  on  Earth  will  praise  you. 

PONTEACH. 

The  Gods  and  Genii  do  as  you  have  said. 
I'll  to  the  Chiefs,  and  hasten  them  to  Arms. 

[Exeunt  PONTEACH  and  CONJURER. 

PRIEST  [solus], 

This,  by  St.  Peter,  goes  as  I  would  have  it. 
The  Conjurer  agreed  with  me  to  pump  him, 


1 62  Representative  Plays 

Or  else  deny  to  solve  his  dubious  Vision : 

But,  that  we've  so  agreed  in  our  Responses, 

Is  all  mere  Providence,  and  rul'd  by  Heaven, 

To  give  us  further  Credit  with  this  Indian. 

Now  he  is  fix'd — will  wage  immediate  War — 

This  will  be  joyful  News  in  France  and  Rome, 

That  Ponteach  is  in  Arms,  and  won't  allow 

The  English  to  possess  their  new-gain'd  Empire: 

That  he  has  slain  their  Troops,  destroy'd  their  Forts, 

Expell'd  them  from  the  Lakes  to  their  old  Limits: 

That  he  prefers  the  French,  and  will  assist 

To  repossess  them  of  this  fertile  Land. 

By  all  the  Saints,  of  this  I'll  make  a  Merit, 

Declare  myself  to  be  the  wise  Projector; 

This  may  advance  me  towards  St.  Peter's  Chair, 

And  these  blind  Infidels  by  Accident 

May  have  a  Hand  in  making  me  a  Pope — 

But  stop — Won't  this  defeat  my  other  Purpose? 

To  gain  the  Mohawk  Princess  to  my  Wishes? 

No — by  the  holy  Virgin,  I'll  surprise  her, 

And  have  one  hearty  Revel  in  her  Charms. 

But  now  I'll  hasten  to  this  Indian  Council; 

I  may  do  something  there  that's  apropos.  [Exit. 


SCENE  III.   An  Indian  Senate-House. 

PONTEACH,   TENESCO,    PHILIP,   ASTINACO,    BEAR,   WOLF,   and 
French  PRIEST. 

PONTEACH. 

Are  all  the  Chiefs  and  Warriors  here  assembled, 
That  we  expect  to  honour  this  Day's  Council? 

TENESCO. 

All  are  conven'd  except  the  Mohawk  King, 
Who,  as  we  are  inform'd,  denies  his  Presence. 

PHILIP. 

I've  half  succeeded  with  the  stubborn  Chief. 
He  will  not  join  in  Council,  but  hath  promised, 
Till  further  Notice,  not  to  be  our  Foe: 


Ponteach  163 

He'll  see  how  we  unite,  and  what  Success 
Attends  our  Arms;  in  short,  he  gives  strong  Hints 
That  he  will  soon  befriend  the  common  Cause. 

PONTEACH. 

Do  what  he  will,  'tis  this  explains  my  Meaning; 

[Taking  up  the  hatchet. 

You  all  are  well  appris'd  of  my  Design, 

Which  every  passing  Moment  but  confirms: 

Nay,  my  Heart's  pain'd  while  I  withhold  my  Hand 

From  Blood  and  Vengeance  on  our  hated  Foes. 
,Tho'  I  should  stand  alone,  I'll  try  my  Power 

To  punish  their  Encroachments,  Frauds,  and  Pride; 

Yet  tho'  I  die,  it  is  my  Country's  Cause, 
\  'Tis  better  thus  to  die  than  be  despis'd; 
\.  Better  to  die  than  be  a  Slave  to  Cowards, 

Better  to  die  than  see  my  Friends  abus'd; 

The  Aged  scorn'd,  the  Young  despis'd  and  spurn'd. 

Better  to  die  than  see  my  .Country  ruin'd, 

^lyself,  my  Sons,  my  Friends  reduc'd  to  Famine, 

Expell'd  from  hence  to  barren  Rocks  and  Mountains, 

To  curse  our  wretched  Fate  and  pine  in  Want; 

Our  pleasant  Lakes  and  Fertile  Lands  usurp'd 

By  Strangers,  Ravagers,  rapacious  Christians. 

Who  is  it  don't  prefer  a  Death  in  War 

To  this  impending  Wretchedness  and  Shame? 

Who  is  it  loves  his  Country,  Friends,  or  Self, 

And  does  not  feel  Resentment  in  his  Soul? 

Who  is  it  sees  their  growing  Strength  and  Power, 

And  how  we  waste  and  fail  by  swift  Degrees, 

That  does  not  think  it  Time  to  rouse  and  arm, 

And  kill  the  Serpent  ere  we  feel  it  sting, 

And  fall  the  Victims  of  its  painful  Poison? 

Oh !  could  our  Fathers  from  their  Country  see 

Their  ancient  Rights  encroach'd  upon  and  ravag'd, 

And  we  their  Children  slow,  supine,  and  careless 

To  keep  the  Liberty  and  Land  they  left  us, 

And  tamely  fall  a  Sacrifice  to  Knaves ! 

How  would  their  Bosoms  glow  with  patriot  Shame, 

To  see  their  Offspring  so  unlike  themselves? 

They  dared  all  Dangers  to  defend  their  Rights, 


164  Representative  Plays 

Nor  tamely  bore  an  Insult  from  a  Foe. 
Their  plain  rough  Souls  were  brave  and  full  of  Fire, 
Lovers  of  War,  nor  knew  the  Pain  of  Fear. 
Rouse,  then,  ye  Sons  of  ancient  Heroes,  rouse, 
Put  on  your  Arms,  and  let  us  act  a  Part 
Worthy  the  Sons  of  such  renowned  Chiefs. 
Nor  urge  I  you  to  Dangers  that  I  shun, 
Or  mean  to  act  my  Part  by  Words  alone; 
This  Hand  shall  wield  the  Hatchet  in  the  Cause, 
These  Feet  pursue  the  frighted  running  Foe, 
This  Body  rush  into  the  hottest  Battle; 
There  should  I  fall,  I  shall  secure  my  Honour, 
And,  dying,  urge  my  Countrymen  to  Vengeance 
With  more  Success  than  all  the  Force  of  Words. 
Should  I  survive,  I'll  shed  the  foremost  Tear 
O'er  my  brave  Countrymen  that  chance  to  fall; 
I'll  be  the  foremost  to  revenge  their  Blood, 
And,  while  I  live,  honour  both  them  and  theirs. 
I  add  no  more,  but  wait  to  hear  your  Minds. 

TENESCO. 

Tho'  I'm  a  Warrior,  and  delight  in  Arms, 
Have  oft  with  Pleasure  heard  the  Sound  of  Battle, 
And  oft  return'd  with  Victory  and  Triumph ; 
Yet  I'm  not  fond  to  fight  without  just  Cause, 
Or  shed  the  Blood  of  Men  for  my  Diversion; 
But  I  have  seen,  with  my  own  Eyes  I've  seen, 
High  Provocations  from  our  present  Foes, 
Their  Pride  and  Insults,  Knavery  and  Frauds, 
Their  large  Encroachments  on  our  common  Rights, 
Which  every  Day  increase,  are  seen  by  all, 
And  grown  so  common,  they  are  disregarded. 
What  calls  on  us  more  loudly  for  Revenge, 
Is  their  Contempt  and  Breach  of  public  Faith. 
When  we  complain,  they  sometimes  promise  fair; 
When  we  grow  restless,  Treaties  are  propos'd, 
And  Promises  are  gilded  then  with  Presents. 
What  is  the  End?  Still  the  old  Trade  goes  on; 
Their  Colonels,  Governors,  and  mighty  Men, 
Cheat,  lie,  and  break  their  solemn  Promises, 
And  take  no  care  to  have  our  Wrongs  redress'd. 


Ponteach  165 

Their  King  is  distant,  would  he  hear  our  Prayers: 
Still  we've  no  other  Way  to  come  at  Justice, 
But  by  our  Arms  to  punish  Wrongs  like  these, 
And  Wrongs  like  these  are  national  and  public, 
Concern  us  all,  and  call  for  public  Vengeance. 
And  Wrongs  like  these  are  recent  in  our  Minds. 

PHILIP. 

Public  or  private  Wrongs,  no  matter  which. 
I  think  our  Hunters  ought  to  be  reveng'd; 
Their  Bodies  are  found  torn  by  rav'nous  Beasts, 
But  who  doubts  they  were  kill'd  by  Englishmen? 
Their  Heads  are  scalp'd,  their  Arms  and  Jewels  gone, 
And  Beasts  of  Prey  can  have  no  Use  for  these. 
No,  they  were  murdered,  slyly,  basely  shot, 
And  who  that  has  a  Heart  does  not  resent  it? 
Oh !  how  I  long  to  tear  their  mangled  Limbs ! 
Yes,  I  could  eat  their  Hearts,  and  drink  their  Blood, 
And  revel  in  their  Torments,  Pains,  and  Tortures; 
And,  though  I  go  alone,  I'll  seek  Revenge. 

ASTINACO. 

This  is  the  Fire  and  Madness  of  your  Youth, 
And  must  be  curb'd  to  do  your  Country  Service. 
Facts  are  not  always  what  they  seem  to  be, 
And  this  perhaps  may  be  the  Fault  of  One 
Whom  their  Laws  punish  if  you  once  detect  him. 
Shall  we  then,  to  revenge  your  Countrymen, 
To  recompense  a  Wrong  by  one  committed, 
Rouse  all  to  Arms,  and  make  a  general  Slaughter? 
'Tis  higher  Motives  move  my  Mind  to  War, 
And  make  me  zealous  in  the  common  Cause. 
But  hear  me — 'Tis  no  Trifle  we're  upon — 
If  we  have  Wisdom,  it  must  now  be  used; 
If  we  have  Numbers,  they  must  be  united; 
If  we  have  Strength,  it  must  be  all  exerted; 
If  we  have  Courage  it  must  be  inflamed, 
And  every  Art  and  Stratagem  be  practised: 
We've  more  to  do  than  fright  a  Pigeon  Roost, 
Or  start  a  timorous  Flock  of  running  Deer; 
Yes,  we've  a  strong,  a  warlike  stubborn  Foe, 


1 66  Representative  Plays 

Unus'd  to  be  repuls'd  and  quit  the  Field, 

Nay,  flush'd  with  Victories  and  long  Success, 

Their  Numbers,  Strength,  and  Courage  all  renown'd, 

Tis  little  of  them  that  you  see  or  know. 

I've  seen  their  Capital,  their  Troops  and  Stores, 

Their  Ships,  their  Magazines  of  Death  and  Vengeance, 

And,  what  is  more,  I've  seen  their  potent  King, 

Who  like  a  God  sits  over  all  the  World, 

And  thunders  forth  his  Vengeance  thro'  the  Earth. 

When  he  is  pleas'd,  Smiles  sit  upon  his  Face, 

And  Goodness  flows  in  Rivers  at  his  Feet; 

When  he's  provok'd,  'tis  like  a  fiery  Tempest, 

All's  Terror  and  Amazement  in  his  Presence, 

And  frighted  Heroes  trembling  flee  his  Wrath. 

What  then  is  to  be  done?  what  may  we  hope? 

At  most,  by  secret,  sly,  and  subtle  Means 

To  curb  these  vagrant  Outcasts  of  his  Subjects, 

Secure  our  Countries  from  their  further  Ravage, 

And  make  ourselves  of  more  Importance  to  them, 

Perhaps  procure  a  Peace  to  our  Advantage. 

In  this  I'll  join  and  head  my  valiant  Troops, 

Who  will  not  fail  to  act  a  valiant  Part. 

THE  BEAR. 

What  is  the  Greatness  of  their  King  to  us? 

What  of  his  Strength  or  Wisdom?    Shall  we  fear 

A  Lion  chain'd,  or  in  another  World? 

Or  what  avails  his  flowing  Goodness  to  us? 

Does  not  the  ravenous  Tyger  feed  her  Young? 

And  the  fierce  Panther  fawn  upon  his  Mate? 

Do  not  the  Wolves  defend  and  help  their  Fellows, 

The  poisonous  Serpent  feed  her  hissing  Brood, 

And  open  wide  her  Mouth  for  their  Protection? 

So  this  good  King  shows  Kindness  to  his  own, 

And  favours  them,  to  make  a  Prey  of  others; 

But  at  his  Hands  we  may  expect  no  Favour, 

Look  back,  my  Friends,  to  our  Forefathers'  Time, 

Where  is  their  Country?  where  their  pleasant  Haunts? 

The  running  Streams  and  shady  Forests  where? 

They  chas'd  the  flying  Game,  and  liv'd  in  Plenty. 

Lo,  these  proud  Strangers  now  possess  the  Whole; 


Ponteach  167 

Their  Cities,  Towns,  and  Villages  arise, 

Forests  are  spoil'd,  the  Haunts  of  Game  destroy'd, 

And  all  the  Sea  Coasts  made  one  general  Waste; 

Between  the  Rivers  Torrent-like  they  sweep, 

And  drive  our  Tribes  toward  the  setting  Sun. 

They  who  once  liv'd  on  yon  delightful  Plains 

Are  now  no  more,  their  very  Name  is  lost. 

The  Sons  of  potent  Kings,  subdu'd  and  murder'd, 

Are  Vagrants,  and  unknown  among  their  Neighbours. 

Where  will  the  Ravage  stop?  the  Ruin  where? 

Does  not  the  Torrent  rush  with  growing  Speed, 

And  hurry  us  to  the  same  wretched  End? 

Let  us  grow  wise  then  by  our  Fathers'  Folly, 

Unite  our  Strength,  too  long  it's  been  divided, 

And  mutual  Fears  and  Jealousies  obtain'd: 

This  has  encourag'd  our  encroaching  Foes, 

But  we'll  convince  them,  once,  we  dare  oppose  them. 

THE  WOLF. 

Yet  we  have  Strength  by  which  we  may  oppose, 
But  every  Day  this  Strength  declines  and  fails. 
Our  great  Forefathers,  ere  these  Strangers  came, 
Liv'd  by  the  Chace,  with  Nature's  Gifts  content, 
The  cooling  Fountain  quench'd  their  raging  Thirst. 
Doctors,  and  Drugs,  and  Med'cines  were  unknown, 
Even  Age  itself  was  free  from  Pain  and  Sickness. 
Swift  as  the  Wind,  o'er  Rocks  and  Hills  they  chas'd 
The  flying  Game,  the  bounding  Stag  outwinded, 
And  tir'd  the  savage  Bear,  and  tam'd  the  Tyger; 
At  Evening  feasted  on  the  past  Day's  Toil, 
Nor  then  fatigu'd;  the  merry  Dance  and  Song 
Succeeded ;  still  with  every  rising  Sun 
The  Sport  renew'd;  or  if  some  daring  Foe 
Provok'd  their  Wrath,  they  bent  the  hostile  Bow, 
Nor  waited  his  Approach,  but  rush'd  with  Speed, 
Fearless  of  Hunger,  Thirst,  Fatigue,  or  Death. 
But  we  their  soften'd  Sons,  a  puny  Race, 
Are  weak  in  Youth,  fear  Dangers  where  they're  not; 
Are  weary'd  with  what  was  to  them  a  Sport, 
Panting  and  breathless  in  One  short  Hour's  Chace; 
And  every  Effort  of  our  Strength  is  feeble. 


1 68  Representative  Plays 

We're  poison'd  with  the  Infection  of  our  Foes, 
Their  very  Looks  and  Actions  are  infectious, 
And  in  deep  Silence  spread  Destruction  round  them. 
Bethink  yourselves  while  any  Strength  remains; 

'pare  to  be  like  your  Fathers,  brave  and  strong, 
Nor  further  let  the  growing  Poison  spread. 
And  would  you  stop  it,  you  must  resolve  to  conquer, 
Destroy  their  Forts  and  Bulwarks,  burn  their  Towns, 
And  keep  them  at  a  greater  Distance  from  us. 
Oh!  'tis  a  Day  I  long  have  wish'd  to  see, 

/And,  aged  as  I  am,  my  Youth  returns 

j  To  act  with  Vigour  in  so  good  a  Cause. 

1  Yes,  you  shall  see  the  old  Wolf  will  not  fail 

\To  head  his  Troops,  and  urge  them  on  to  Battle. 

PONTEACH. 

Your  Minds  are  all  for  War,  we'll  not  delay; 
Nor  doubt  but  others  gladly  will  comply, 
When  they  behold  our  Union  and  Success. 

TENESCO. 

This  Holy  Priest  has  something  to  propose 
That  may  excite  us  all  to  greater  Zeal. 

PONTEACH. 

Let  him  be  heard :   'Tis  something  from  his  Gods, 
And  may  import  the  common  Interest  much. 

PRIEST. 

[Coming  from  one  side,  where  he  hath  stood  listening.] 
'Tis  not  to  shew  my  Eloquence  of  Speech, 
Or  drown  your  Senses  with  unmeaning  Sound, 
That  I  desire  Admittance  to  your  Council ; 
It  is  an  Impulse  from  the  Gods  that  moves  me, 
That  what  I  say  will  be  to  your  Advantage. 
Oh !  With  what  secret  Pleasure  I  behold 
So  many  wise  and  valiant  Kings  unite, 
And  in  a  Cause  by  Gods  and  Saints  espous'd. 
Heaven  smiles  on  your  Design,  and  it  shall  prosper. 
You're  going  to  fight  the  Enemies  of  God; 
Rebels  and  Traitors  to  the  King  of  Kings; 


Ponteach  169 

Nay,  those  who  once  betray'd  and  kill'd  his  Son, 
Who  came  to  save  you  Indians  from  Damnation— 
He  was  an  Indian,  therefore  they  destroy 'd  himy 
He  rose  again  and  took  his  flight  to  Heaven;     ' 
But  when  his  Foes  are  slain  he'll  quick  return; 
And  be  your  kind  Protector,  Friend,  and  King. 
Be  therefore  brave  and  fight  his  Battles  for  him ; 
Spare  not  his  Enemies,  where-e'r  you  find  'em: 
The  more  you  murder  them,  the  more  you  please  him; 
Kill  all  you  captivate,  both  old  and  young, 
Mothers  and  Children,  let  them  feel  your  Tortures; 
He  that  shall  kill  a  Briton,  merits  Heaven. 
And  should  you  chance  to  fall,  you'll  be  convey'd 
By  flying  Angels  to  your  King  that's  there 
Where  these  your  hated  Foes  can  never  come. 
Doubt  you  the  Truth  of  this  my  Declaration? 
I  have  a  Witness  here  that  cannot  lie. 

[Pulling  out  a  burning  glass. 

This  Glass  was  touch'd  by  your  great  Saviour's  Hand, 
And  after  left  in  holy  Peter's  Care; 
When  I  command,  it  brings  down  Fire  from  Heaven, 
To  witness  for  me  that  I  tell  no  Lie. 

[The  INDIANS  gather  round  and  gaze. 

Behold — Great  God,  send  Fire,  convince  these  Indian  Kings 
That  I'm  thy  Servant,  and  report  the  Truth, 

[In  a  very  praying  posture  and  solemn  canting  tone. 
Am  sent  to  teach  them  what  they  ought  to  do, 
To  kill  and  scalp,  to  torture  and  torment 
Thy  murderous  treacherous  Foes,  the  hateful  English. 

[It  takes  fire;  the  INDIANS  are  amaz'd,  and  retreat  from  it. 

PONTEACH. 

Who  now  can  doubt  the  Justice  of  our  Cause, 
Or  this  Man's  Mission  from  the  King  above, 
And  that  we  ought  to  follow  his  Commands? 

ASTINACO. 
'Tis  wonderful  indeed — It  must  be  so — 

TENESCO. 
This  cannot  be  a  Cheat — It  is  from  Heaven — - 


170  Representative  Plays 

ALL. 

We  are  convinc'd  and  ready  to  obey; 
We  are  impatient  to  revenge  our  King. 

PONTEACH. 

[Takes  up  the  bloody  hatchet  and  flourishes  it  round.] 
Thus  do  I  raise  the  Hatchet  from  the  Ground, 
Sharpen'd  and  bright  may  it  be  stain'd  with  Blood, 
And  never  dull'd  nor  rusted  till  we've  conquer'd, 
And  taught  proud  Englishmen  to  dread  its  Edge. 

ALL. 

[Flourishing  their  hatchets,  and  striking  them  upon  a  block.] 
Thus  will  we  hew  and  carve  their  mangled  Bodies, 
And  give  them  to  the  Beasts  and  Birds  for  Food. 

PONTEACH. 

And  thus  our  Names  and  Honours  will  maintain  \ 
While  Sun  and  Moon,  Rivers  and  Trees  remain; 
Our  unborn  Children  shall  rejoice  to  hear 
How  we  their  Fathers  made  the  English  fear. 

THE  WAR  SONG. 

To  the  tune  of  "Over  the  Hills  and  far  away,11  sung  by  TENESCO, 
the  head  warrior.  They  all  join  in  the  Chorus,  and  dance,  while 
that  is  singing,  in  a  circle  round  him;  and  during  the  Chorus  the 
music  plays. 

Where-e'r  the  Sun  displays  his  Light, 

Or  Moon  is  seen  to  shine  by  Night, 

Where-e'r  the  noisy  Rivers  flow 

Or  Trees  and  Grass  and  Herbage  grow. — Chorus. 

Be  't  known  that  we  this  War  begin 
With  proud  insulting  Englishmen; 
The  Hatchet  we  have  lifted  high, 

[Holding  up  their  hatchets. 
And  them  we'll  conquer  or  we'll  die. — Chorus. 

The  Edge  is  keen,  the  Blade  is  bright, 
Nothing  saves  them  but  their  Flight; 
And  then  like  Heroes  we'll  pursue, 
Over  the  Hills  and  Valleys  through. — Chorus. 


Ponteach  171 

They'll  like  frighted  Women  quake, 

When  they  behold  a  hissing  Snake; 

Or  like  timorous  Deer  away, 

And  leave  both  Goods  and  Arms  a  Prey. — Chorus. 

Pain'd  with  Hunger,  Cold,  or  Heat, 
In  Haste  they'll  from  our  Land  retreat; 
While  we'll  employ  our  scalping  Knives — 

{Drawing  and  flourishing  their  scalping  knives. 
Take  off  their  Skulls,  and  spare  their  Lives. — Chorus. 

Or  in  their  Country  they'll  complain, 

Nor  ever  dare  return  again; 

Or  if  they  should  they'll  rue  the  Day, 

And  curse  the  Guide  that  shew'd  the  Way.— Chorus. 

If  Fortune  smiles,  we'll  not  be  long 

Ere  we  return  with  Dance  and  Song, 

But  ah !  if  we  should  chance  to  die, 

Dear  Wives  and  Children  do  not  cry. — Chorus. 

Our  Friends  will  ease  your  Grief  and  Woe, 

By  double  Vengeance  on  the  Foe; 

Will  kill,  and  scalp,  and  shed  their  Blood, 

Where-e'r  they  find  them  thro'  the  Wood. — Chorus. 

No  pointing  Foe  shall  ever  say 

'Twas  there  the  vanquish'd  Indian  lay; 

Or  boasting  to  his  Friends  relate 

The  Tale  of  our  unhappy  Fate. — Chorus. 

Let  us  with  Courage  then  away 
To  hunt  and  seize  the  frighted  Prey; 
Nor  think  of  Children,  Friend,  or  Wife, 
While  there's  an  Englishman  alive. — Chorus. 

In  Heat  and  Cold,  thro'  Wet  and  Dry, 
Will  we  pursue,  and  they  shall  fly 
To  Seas  which  they  a  Refuge  think, 
And  there  in  wretched  Crowds  they'll  sink. — Chorus. 

[Exeunt  omnes  singing. 

The  End  of  the  Third  Act. 


I72  Representative  Plays 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.    The  Border  of  a  Grove. 
Enter  TENESCO  to  PHILIP  and  CHEKITAN. 

TENESCO. 

The  Troops  are  all  assembled,  some  have  march'd, 
Perhaps  are  now  engag'd,  and  warm  in  Battle; 
The  rest  have  Orders  where  to  bend  their  Course. 
Each  Tribe  is  headed  by  a  valiant  Chief, 
Except  the  Bulls  which  fall  to  one  of  you ; 
The  other  stays  to  serve  the  State  at  home, 
Or  back  us,  should  our  Forces  prove  too  weak. 

PHILIP. 

The  Bulls  are  brave,  had  they  a  brave  Commander, 
They'd  push  the  Battle  home  with  sure  Success. 
I'd  choose  of  all  the  Troops  to  be  their  Leader; 
For  tho'  I'd  neither  Courage,  Skill,  nor  Strength, 
Honour  attends  the  Man  who  heads  the  Brave; 
Many  are  dubb'd  for  Heroes  in  these  Times,  .^ 

Who  owe  their  Fame  to  those  whom  they  commanded. 

TENESCO. 

But  we  shall  ne'er  suspect  your  Title  false; 
Already  you've  connrm'd  your  Fame  and  Courage, 
And  prov'd  your  Skill  and  Strength  as  a  Commander. 

PHILIP. 

Still  I'll  endeavour  to  deserve  your  Praise, 
Nor  long  delay  the  Honour  you  propose. 

CHEKITAN. 

But  this  will  interfere  with  your  Design, 

And  oversets  the  Scheme  of  winning  Hendrick. 

PHILIP. 
Ah  true — and  kills  your  Hope — This  Man  's  in  Love. 

[To  TENESCO. 
TENESCO. 

Indeed!  In  Love  with  whom?    King  Hendrick's  Daughter? 


Ponteach  173 

PHILIP. 

The  same;  and  I've  engag'd  to  win  her  Father. 
TENESCO. 

This  may  induce  him  to  espouse  our  Cause, 
Which  likewise  you  engag'd  should  be  effected. 

PHILIP. 

But  then  I  can't  command  as  was  propos'd, 
I  must  resign  that  Honour  to  this  Lover, 
While  I  conduct  and  form  this  double  Treaty. 

TENESCO. 

I  am  content  if  you  but  please  yourselves 

By  Means  and  Ways  not  hurtful  to  the  Public. 

CHEKITAN. 

Was  not  the  Public  serv'd,  no  private  Ends 
Would  tempt  me  to  detain  him  from  the  Field, 
Or  in  his  stead  propose  myself  a  Leader; 
But  every  Power  I  have  shall  be  exerted: 
And  if  in  Strength  or  Wisdom  I  should  fail, 
I  dare  presume  you'll  ever  find  me  faithful. 

TENESCO. 

I  doubt  it  not — You'll  not  delay  your  Charge; 
The  Troops  are  all  impatient  for  the  Battle. 

[Exeunt  TENESCO  and  PHILIP. 

CHEKITAN  [solus]. 

This  is  not  to  my  Mind — But  I  must  do  it — 
If  Philip  heads  the  Troops,  my  Hopes  are  blown — 
I  must  prepare,  and  leave  the  Event  to  Fate 
And  him — Tis  fix'd — There  is  no  other  Choice; 
Monelia  I  must  leave,  and  think  of  Battles — 
She  will  be  safe — But,  Oh!  the  Chance  of  War — 
Perhaps  I  fall — and  never  see  her  more — 
This  shocks  my  Soul  in  spite  of  Resolution — 
The  bare  Perhaps  is  more  than  Daggers  to  me — 
To  part  for  ever!   I'd  rather  stand  against 
Embattled  Troops  than  meet  this  single  Thought; 


174  Representative  Plays 

A  Thought  in  Poison  dipp'd  and  pointed  round; 
Oh!  how  it  pains  my  doubting  trembling  Heart! 
I  must  not  harbour  it — My  Word  is  gone — 
My  Honour  calls — and,  what  is  more,  my  Love. 

[Noise  of  MONELIA  striving  behind  the  scene. 
What  Sound  is  that? — It  is  Monelia's  Voice; 
And  in  Distress — What  Monster  gives  her  Pain? 

[Going  towards  the  sound,  the  Scene  opens  and  discovers  the 
PRIEST  with  her. 


SCENE  II.   MONELIA  and  PRIEST. 

CHEKITAN 
What  do  I  see?   The  holy  Priest  is  with  her. 

MONELIA. 

[Struggling  with  the  PRIEST,  and  trying  to  disengage  herself.] 
•.  No,  I  would  sooner  die  than  be  dishonour'd— - 
V^Cut  my  own  Throat,  or  drown  me  in  the  Lake. 

PRIEST. 
Do  you  love  Indians  better  than  us  white  Men? 

MONELIA. 

/Nay,  should  an  Indian  make  the  foul  Attempt, 
\J'd  murder  him,  or  kill  my  wretched  Self. 

PRIEST. 
I  must  I  can,  and  will  enjoy  you  now. 

MONELIA. 
v/You  must!  You  sha'n't,  you  cruel,  barbarous  Christian. 

CHEKITAN. 

Hold,  thou  mad  Tyger — What  Attempt  is  this?  [Seizing  him. 
Are  you  a  Christian  Priest?  What  do  you  here?  [Pushes  him. 
What  was  his  Will,  Monelia?  He  is  dumb. 

MONELIA. 

May  he  be  dumb  and  blind,  and  senseless  quite, 
That  had  such  brutal  Baseness  in  his  Mind. 


Ponteach  175 

CHEKITAN. 

Base,  false  Deceiver,  what  could  you  intend? 

[Making  towards  him. 

MONELIA. 

/Oh,  I  am  faint — You  have  preserv'd  my  Honour, 
(^Which  he,  foul  Christian,  thirsted  to  destroy. 

[PRIEST  attempts  to  go. 
CHEKITAN. 

Stay;  leave  your  Life  to  expiate  your  Crime: 
Your  heated  Blood  shall  pay  for  your  Presumption. 

[Offering  to  strike  him  with  a  hatchet. 

PRIEST. 

Good  Prince,  forbear  your  pious  Hand  from  Blood ; 
I  did  not  know  you  was  this  Maiden's  Lover, 
I  took  her  for  a  Stranger,  half  your  Foe. 

CHEKITAN. 

Did  you  not  know  she  was  King  Hendrick's  Daughter? 
Did  you  not  know  that  she  was  not  your  Wife? 
Have  you  not  told  us,  holy  Men  like  you 
Are  by  the  Gods  forbid  all  fleshly  Converse? 
Have  you  not  told  us,  Death,  and  Fire,  and  Hell 
Await  those  who  are  incontinent, 
Or  dare  to  violate  the  Rites  of  Wedlock? 
That  your  God's  Mother  liv'd  and  died  a  Virgin, 
And  thereby  set  Example  to  her  Sex? 
What  means  all  this?  Say  you  such  Things  to  us, 
That  you  alone  may  revel  in  these  Pleasures? 

PRIEST. 

I  have  a  Dispensation  from  St.  Peter 
To  quench  the  Fire  of  Love  when  it  grows  painful. 
This  makes  it  innocent  like  Marriage  Vows; 
And  all  our  holy  Priests,  and  she  herself, 
Commit  no  Sin  in  this  Relief  of  Nature: 
For,  being  holy,  there  is  no  Pollution 
Communicated  from  us  as  from  others; 
Nay,  Maids  are  holy  after  we've  enjoy'd  them, 
And,  should  the  Seed  take  Root,  the  Fruit  is  pure. 


176  Representative  Plays 

CHEKITAN. 

Oh  vain  Pretense !  Falsehood  and  foul  Deception ! 
None  but  a  Christian  could  devise  such  Lies! 
Did  I  not  fear  it  might  provoke  your  Gods, 
Your  Tongue  should  never  frame  Deceit  again. 
If  there  are  Gods,  and  such  as  you  have  told  us, 
They  must  abhor  all  Baseness  and  Deceit, 
And  will  not  fail  to  punish  Crimes  like  yours. 
To  them  I  leave  you — But  avoid  my  Presence, 
Nor  let  me  ever  see  your  hated  Head, 
Or  hear  your  lying  Tongue  within  this  Country. 

PRIEST. 
Now  by  St.  Peter  I  must  go — He's  raging.  [Aside. 

CHEKITAN. 

That  Day  I  do,  by  your  great  dreadful  God, 

This  Hand  shall  cleave  your  Head,  and  spill  your  Blood, 

Not  all  your  Prayers,  and  Lies,  and  Saints  shall  save  you. 

PRIEST. 

I've  got  his  Father's  Secret,  and  will  use  it. 

Such  Disappointment  ought  to  be  reveng'd.  [Aside. 

CHEKITAN. 

Don't  mutter  here,  and  conjure  up  your  Saints, 
I  value  not  their  Curses,  or  your  Prayers. 

[Stepping  towards  the  PRIEST  to  hurry  him. 

PRIEST. 
By  all  the  Saints,  young  Man,  thou  shalt  repent  it. 

[Exit. 
MONELIA. 

Base,  false  Dissembler — Tyger,  Snake,  a  Christian! 
I  hate  the  Sight;  I  fear  the  very  Name. 
O  Prince,  what  has  not  your  kind  Presence  sav'd  me! 

CHEKITAN. 

It  sav'd  to  me  more  than  my  Father's  Empire; 
Far  more  than  Crowns  and  Worlds — It  sav'd  Monelia, 
The  Hope  of  whom  is  more  than  the  Creation. 


Pon  teach  177 

In  this  I  feel  the  Triumph  of  an  Hero, 

And  glory  more  than  if  I'd  conquer'd  Kingdoms. 

MONELIA. 

Oh,  I  am  thine,  I'm  more  than  ever  thine; 
I  am  your  Captive  now,  your  lawful  Prize: 
You've  taken  me  in  War,  a  dreadful  War! 
And  snatch'd  me  from  the  hungry  Tyger's  Jaw. 
More  than  my  Life  and  Service  is  your  Due, 
And  had  I  more  I  would  devote  it  to  you. 

CHEKITAN. 

0  my  Monelia!  rich  is  my  Reward, 
Had  I  lost  Life  itself  in  the  Encounter; 

But  still  I  fear  that  Fate  will  snatch  you  from  me. 
Where  is  your  Brother?    Why  was  you  alone? 

Enter  TOR  AX,  from  listening  to  their  discourse, 

TORAX. 

Here  am  I :  What  would  you  of  me? 

MONELIA. 
Torax ! 

I've  been  assaulted  by  a  barbarous  Man, 
And  by  mere  Accident  escap'd  my  Ruin. 

TORAX. 
What  Foe  is  here?    The  English  are  not  come? 

MONELIA. 

No:   But  a  Christian  lurk'd  within  the  Grove, 
And  every  Christian  is  a  Foe  to  Virtue; 
Insidious,  subtle,  cruel,  base,  and  false! 
Like  Snakes,  their  very  Eyes  are  full  of  Poison; 
And  where  they  are  not,  Innocence  is  safe. 

TORAX. 
The  holy  Priest!  Is  he  so  vile  a  Man? 

1  heard  him  mutter  Threat'nings  as  I  past  him. 

CHEKITAN. 

I  spar'd  his  guilty  Life,  but  drove  him  hence, 
On  Pain  of  Death  and  Tortures,  never  more 


178  Representative  Plays 

To  tread  the  Earth,  or  breathe  the  Air  with  me. 
Be  warn'd  by  this  to  better  tend  your  Charge. 
You  see  how  Mischiefs  lie  conceal'd  about  us, 
We  tread  on  Serpents  ere  we  hear  them  hiss, 
And  Tygers  lurk  to  seize  the  incautious  Prey. ' 
I  must  this  Hour  lead  forth  my  Troops  to  Battle, 
They're  now  in  Arms,  and  waiting  my  Command. 

MONELIA. 

What  Safety  shall  I  have  when  you  are  gone? 
I  must  not,  cannot,  will  not  longer  tarry, 
Lest  other  Christians,  or  some  other  Foe, 
Attempt  my  Ruin. 

CHEKITAN. 

Torax  will  be  your  Guard. 
My  Honour  suffers,  should  I  now  decline; 
It  is  my  Country's  Cause;  I've  pawn'd  my  Word, 
Prevented  Philip,  to  make  sure  of  you. 
He  stays.    'Tis  all  in  favour  to  our  Love; 
We  must  at  present  please  ourselves  with  Hopes. 

MONELIA. 

Oh!  my  fond  Heart  no  more  conceals  its  Flame; 
I  fear,  my  Prince,  I  fear  our  Fates  are  cruel : 
There's  something  whispers  in  my  anxious  Breast, 
That  if  you  go,  I  ne'er  shall  see  you  more. 

CHEKITAN. 

Oh !  how  her  Words  unman  and  melt  my  Soul ! 
As  if  her  Fears  were  Prophecies  of  Fate.  [Aside. 

I  will  not  go  and  leave  you  thus  in  Fears; 
I'll  frame  Excuses — Philip  shall  command — 
I'll  find  some  other  Means  to  turn  the  King; 
I'll  venture  Honour,  Fortune,  Life,  and  Love, 
Rather  than  trust  you  from  my  Sight  again. 
For  what  avails  all  that  the  World  can  give? 
If  you're  withheld,  all  other  Gifts  are  Curses, 
And  Fame  and  Fortune  serve  to  make  me  wretched. 

MONELIA. 

Now  you  grow  wild — You  must  not  think  of  staying; 
Our  only  Hope,  you  know,  depends  on  Philip. 


Ponteach  179 

I  will  not  fear,  but  hope  for  his  Success, 
And  your  Return  with  Victory  and  Triumph, 
That  Love  and  Honour  both  may  crown  our  Joy. 

CHEKITAN. 

Now  this  is  kind ;  I  am  myself  again. 
You  had  unman'd  and  soften'd  all  my  Soul, 
Disarm'd  my  Hand,  and  cowardiz'd  my  Heart: 
But  now  in  every  Vein  I  feel  an  Hero, 
Defy  the  thickest  Tempest  of  the  War: 
Yes,  like  a  Lion  conscious  of  his  Strength, 
Fearless  of  Death  I'll  rush  into  the  Battle; 
I'll  fight,  I'll  conquer,  triumph  and  return; 
Laurels  I'll  gain  and  lay  them  at  your  Feet. 

MONELIA. 

May  the  Success  attend  you  that  you  wish! 
May  our  whole  Scheme  of  Happiness  succeed! 
May  our  next  Meeting  put  an  End  to  Fear, 
And  Fortune  shine  upon  us  in  full  Blaze! 

CHEKITAN. 

May  Fate  preserve  you  as  her  Darling  Charge! 
May  all  the  Gods  and  Goddesses,  and  Saints, 
If  conscious  of  our  Love,  turn  your  Protectors! 
And  the  great  thundering  God  with  Lightning  burn 
Him  that  but  means  to  interrupt  your  Peace.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.   Indian  Senate-House. 
PONTEACH  and  PHILIP. 

PONTEACH. 
Say  you  that  Torax  then  is  fond  of  War? 

PHILIP. 
He  is,  and  waits  impatient  my  Return. 

PONTEACH. 

'Tis  friendly  in  you  thus  to  help  your  Brother; 
But  I  suspect  his  Courage  in  the  Field ; 
A  love-sick  Boy  makes  but  a  cow'rdly  Captain. 


i8o  Representative  Plays 

PHILIP. 

His  Love  may  spur  him  on  with  greater  Courage; 
He  thinks  he's  fighting  for  a  double  Prize; 
And  but  for  this,  and  Hopes  of  greater  Service 
In  forwarding  the  Treaty  with  the  Mohawk, 
I  now  had  been  in  Arms  and  warm  in  Battle. 

PONTEACH. 

I  much  commend  the  Wisdom  of  your  Stay. 

Prepare  yourself,  and  hasten  to  his  Quarters; 

You  cannot  make  th'  Attempt  with  too  much  Speed. 

Urge  ev'ry  Argument  with  Force  upon  him, 

Urge  my  strong  Friendship,  urge  your  Brother's  Love, 

His  Daughter's  Happiness,  the  common  Good; 

The  general  Sense  of  all  the  Indian  Chiefs, 

The  Baseness  of  our  Foes,  our  Hope  of  Conquest; 

The  Richness  of  the  Plunder  if  we  speed; 

That  we'll  divide  and  share  it  as  he  pleases; 

That  our  Success  is  certain  if  he  joins  us. 

Urge  these,  and  what  besides  to  you  occurs; 

All  cannot  fail,  I  think,  to  change  his  Purpose. 

PHILIP. 

You'd  think  so  more  if  you  knew  all  my  Plan.  [Aside. 

I'm  all  prepar'd  now  I've  receiv'd  your  Orders, 
But  first  must  speak  t'  his  Children  ere  I  part, 
I  am  to  meet  them  in  the  further  Grove. 

PONTEACH. 

Hark!  there's  a  Shout — We've  News  of  some  Success; 
It  is  the  Noise  of  Victory  and  Triumph. 

[Enter  a  MESSENGER. 

MESSENGER. 

Huzza !  for  our  brave  Warriors  are  return'd 
Loaded  with  Plunder  and  the  Scalps  of  Christians. 

[Enter  WARRIORS. 

PONTEACH. 

What  have  you  done?    Why  all  this  Noise  and  Shouting? 


Ponteach  181 

IST  WARRIOR. 

Three  Forts  are  taken,  all  consum'd  and  plunder'd; 
The  English  in  them  all  destroy'd  by  Fire, 
Except  some  few  escap'd  to  die  with  Hunger. 

2ND  WARRIOR. 

We've  smok'd  the  Bear  in  spite  of  all  his  Craft, 
Burnt  up  their  Den,  and  made  them  take  the  Field: 
The  mighty  Colonel  Cockum  and  his  Captain 
Have  dull'd  our  Tomhocks;  here  are  both  their  Scalps: 

[Holding  out  the  two  scalps. 
Their  Heads  are  split,  our  Dogs  have  eat  their  Brains. 

PHILIP. 
If  that  be  all  they've  eat,  the  Hounds  will  starve. 

3RD  WARRIOR. 

These  are  the  scalps  of  those  two  famous  Cheats 
Who  bought  our  Furs  for  Rum,  and  sold  us  Water. 

[Holding  out  the  scalps,  which  PONTEACH  takes. 
Our  Men  are*  loaded  with  their  Furs  again, 
And  other  Plunder  from  the  Villains'  Stores. 

PONTEACH. 
All  this  is  brave!    [Tossing  up  the  scalps,  which  others  catch,  and 

toss  and  throw  them  about. 
This  Way  we'll  serve  them  all. 

PHILIP. 
We'll  cover  all  our  Cabins  with  their  Scalps. 

WARRIORS. 
We'll  fat  our  Dogs  upon  their  Brains  and  Blood. 

PONTEACH. 
Ere  long  we'll  have  their  Governors  in  Play. 

PHILIP. 
And  knock  their  grey-wig'd  Scalps  about  this  Way. 

PONTEACH. 

The  Game  is  started ;  Warriors,  hunt  away, 
Nor  let  them  find  a  Place  to  shun  your  Hatchets. 


1 82  Representative  Plays 

ALL  WARRIORS. 
We  will :  We  will  soon  shew  you  other  Scalps. 

PHILIP. 

Bring  some  alive;   I  long  to  see  them  dance 
In  Fire  and  Flames,  it  us'd  to  make  them  caper. 

WARRIORS. 
Such  Sport  enough  you'll  have  before  we've  done.  [Exeunt. 

PONTEACH. 

This  still  will  help  to  move  the  Mohawk  King. 
Spare  not  to  make  the  most  of  our  Success. 

PHILIP. 
Trust  me  for  that — Hark;  there's  another  Shout; 

[Shouting  without. 
A  Shout  for  Prisoners — Now  I  have  my  Sport. 

PONTEACH. 
It  is  indeed;  and  there's  a  Number  too. 

Enter  WARRIORS. 

IST  WARRIOR. 

We've  broke  the  Barrier,  burnt  their  Magazines, 
Slew  Hundreds  of  them,  and  pursu'd  the  rest 
Quite  to  their  Settlements. 

2ND  WARRIOR. 
There  we  took 

Their  famous  Hunters  Honnyman  and  Orsbourn; 
The  last  is  slain,  this  is  his  bloody  Scalp.  [Tossing  it  up. 

With  them  we  found  the  Guns  of  our  lost  Hunters, 
And  other  Proofs  that  they're  the  Murderers;  - 
Nay,  Honnyman  confesses  the  base  Deed, 
And,  boasting,  says,  he's  kill'd  a  Score  of  Indians. 

3RD  WARRIOR. 
This  is  the  bloody  Hunter:  This  his  Wife; 

[Leading  them  forward,  pinioned  and  tied  together. 
With  two  young  Brats  that  will  be  like  their  Father. 
We  took  them  in  their  Nest,  and  spoil'd  their  Dreams. 


Ponteach  183 

PHILIP. 

Oh  I  could  eat  their  Hearts,  and  drink  their  Blood, 
Were  they  not  Poison,  and  unfit  for  Dogs. 
Here,  you  Blood-hunter,  have  you  lost  your  Feeling? 
You  Tygress  Bitch!  You  Breeder  up  of  Serpents! 

[Slapping  HONNYMAN  in  the  face,  and  kicking  his  wife. 

PONTEACH. 

Stop — We  must  first  consult  which  way  to  torture. 
And  whether  all  shall  die — We  will  retire. 

PHILIP  [going]. 
Take  care  they  don't  escape. 

WARRIOR. 
They're  bound  secure. 

[Exeunt  INDIANS;  manent  PRISONERS. 


SCENE  IV. 

MRS.  HONNYMAN. 

Oh,  Honnyman,  how  desperate  is  our  Case! 
There's  not  a  single  Hope  of  Mercy  left: 
How  savage,  cruel,  bloody  did  they  look! 
Rage  and  Revenge  appear'd  in  every  Face. 

HONNYMAN. 

You  may  depend  upon  't,  we  all  must  die, 

I've  made  such  Havoc,  they'll  have  no  Compassion; 

They  only  wait  to  study  out  new  Torments: 

All  that  can  be  inflicted  or  endur'd, 

We  may  expect  from  their  relentless  Hands. 

Their  brutal  Eyes  ne'er  shed  a  pitying  Tear; 

Their  savage  Hearts  ne'er  had  a  Thought  of  Mercy; 

Their  Bosoms  swell  with  Rancour  and  Revenge, 

And,  Devil-like,  delight  in  others'  Plagues, 

Love  Torments,  Torture,  Anguish,  Fire,  and  Pain, 

The  deep-fetch'd  Groan,  the  melancholy  Sigh, 

And  all  the  Terrors  and  Distress  of  Death, 

These  are  their  Music,  and  enhance  their  Joy. 

In  Silence  then  submit  yourself  to  Fate: 


184  Representative  Plays 

Make  no  Complaint,  nor  ask  for  their  Compassion; 

This  will  confound  and  half  destroy  their  Mirth; 

Nay,  this  may  put  a  stop  to  many  Tortures, 

To  which  our  Prayers  and  Tears  and  Plaints  would  move  them. 

MRS.  HONNYMAN. 

Oh,  dreadful  Scene!  Support  me,  mighty  God, 

To  pass  the  Terrors  of  this  dismal  Hour, 

All  dark  with  Horrors  Torments,  Pains,  and  Death! 

Oh,  let  me  not  despair  of  thy  kind  Help; 

Give  Courage  to  my  wretched,  groaning  Heart! 

HONNYMAN. 
Tush,  Silence!  You'll  be  overheard. 

MRS.  HONNYMAN. 

Oh,  my  dear  Husband !  Tis  an  Hour  for  Prayer, 
An  Infidel  would  pray  in  our  Distress: 
An  Atheist  would  believe  there  was  some  God 
To  pity  Pains  and  Miseries  so  great. 

HONNYMAN. 

If  there's  a  God,  he  knows  our  secret  Wishes; 
This  Noise  can  be  no  Sacrifice  to  him; 
It  opens  all  the  Springs  of  our  weak  Passions. 
Besides,  it  will  be  Mirth  to  our  Tormentors; 
They'll  laugh,  and  call  this  Cowardice  in  Christians 
And  say  Religion  makes  us  all  mere  Women. 

MRS.  HONNYMAN. 

I  will  suppress  my  Grief  in  Silence  then, 

And  secretly  implore  the  Aid  of  Heaven. 

Forbid  to  pray !   Oh,  dreadful  Hour  indeed !  [Pausing. 

Think  you  they  will  not  spare  our  dear  sweet  Babes? 

Must  these  dear  Innocents  be  put  to  Tortures, 

Or  dash'd  to  Death,  and  share  our  wretched  Fate? 

Must  this  dear  Babe  that  hangs  upon  my  Breast 

[Looking  upon  her  infant. 

Be  snatch'd  by  savage  Hands  and  torn  in  Pieces! 
Oh,  how  it  rends  my  Heart!   It  is  too  much! 
Tygers  would  kindly  soothe  a  Grief  like  mine; 


Ponteach  185 

Unconscious  Rocks  would  melt,  and  flow  in  Tears 
At  this  last  Anguish  of  a  Mother's  Soul. 

(Pauses,  and  views  her  child  again. 
Sweet  Innocent!  It  smiles  at  this  Distress, 
And  fondly  draws  this  final  Comfort  from  me: 
Dear  Babe,  no  more:  Dear  Tommy  too  must  die, 

[Looking  at  her  other  child. 
Oh,  my  sweet  First-born !   Oh,  I'm  overpower'd.  [Pausing. 

HONNYMAN. 

I  had  determin'd  not  to  shed  a  Tear;  [Weeping. 

But  you  have  all  unman'd  my  Resolution; 
You've  call'd  up  all  the  Father  in  my  Soul; 
Why  have  you  nam'd  my  Children?  Oh,  my  Son! 

[Looking  upon  him. 

My  only  Son — My  Image — Other  Self! 
How  have  I  doted  on  the  charming  Boy, 
And  fondly  plann'd  his  Happiness  in  Life! 
Now  his  Life  ends:  Oh,  the  Soul-bursting  Thought! 
He  falls  a  Victim  for  his  Father's  Folly. 
Had  I  not  kill'd  their  Friends,  they  might  have  spar'd 
My  Wife,  my  Children,  and  perhaps  myself, 
And  this  sad,  dreadful  Scene  had  never  happen'd. 
But  'tis  too  late  that  I  perceive  my  Folly; 
If  Heaven  forgive,  'tis  all  1  dare  to  hope  for. 

MRS.  HONNYMAN. 

What!  have  you  been  a  Murderer  indeed! 
And  kill'd  the  Indians  for  Revenge  and  Plunder? 
I  thought  you  rash  to  tempt  their  brutal  Rage, 
But  did  not  dream  you  guilty  as  you  said. 

HONNYMAN. 

I  am  indeed.    I  murder'd  many  of  them, 
And  thought  it  not  amiss,  but  now  I  fear. 

MRS.  HONNYMAN. 

O  shocking  Thought!  Why  have  you  let  me  know 
Yourself  thus  guilty  in  the  Eye  of  Heaven? 
That  I  and  my  dear  Babes  were  by  you  brought 
To  this  Extreme  of  Wretchedness  and  Woe? 


1 86  Representative  Plays 

Why  have  you  let  me  know  the  solemn  Weight 

Of  horrid  Guilt  that  lies  upon  us  all? 

To  have  died  innocent,  and  seen  these  Babes 

By  savage  Hands  dash'd  to  immortal  Rest, 

This  had  been  light,  for  this  implies  no  Crime: 

But  now  we  die  as  guilty  Murderers, 

Not  savage  Indians,  but  just  Heaven's  Vengeance 

Pursues  our  Lives  with  all  these  Pains  and  Tortures. 

This  is  a  Thought  that  points  the  keenest  Sorrow, 

And  leaves  no  Room  for  Anguish  to  be  heighten'd. 

HONNYMAN. 

Upbraid  me  not,  nor  lay  my  Guilt  to  Heart; 
You  and  these  Fruits  of  our  past  Morning  Love 
Are  innocent.    I  feel  the  Smart  and  Anguish, 
The  Stings  of  Conscience,  and  my  Soul  on  Fire. 
There's  not  a  Hell  more  painful  than  my  Bosoi 
Nor  Torments  for  the  Damn'd  more  keenly 
How  could  I  think  to  murder  was  no  Sin? 
Oh,  my  lost  Neighbour !    I  seduc'd  him  too. 
Now  death  with  all  its  Terrors  disappears, 
And  all  I  fear  's  a  dreadful  Something-after; 
My  Mind  forebodes  a  horrid,  woful  Scene, 
Where  Guilt  is  chain'd  and  tortur'd  with  Despair. 

MRS.  HONNYMAN. 
The  Mind  oppress'd  with  Guilt  may  find  Relief.  — 

HONNYMAN. 

Oh,  could  I  reach  the  pitying  Ear  of  Heaven, 
And  all  my  Soul  evaporate  in  Sound, 
'T  would  ask  Forgiveness!  but  I  fear  too  late; 
And  next  I'd  ask  that  you  and  these  dear  Babes 
Might  bear  no  Part  in  my  just  Punishment. 
Who  knows  but  by  pathetic  Prayers  and  Tears 
Their  savage  Bosoms  may  relent  towards  you, 
And  fix  their  Vengeance  where  just  Heaven  points  it? 
I  still  will  hope,  and  every  Motive  urge. 
Should  I  succeed,  and  melt  their  rocky  Hearts, 
I'd  take  it  as  a  Presage  of  my  Pardon, 
And  die  with  Comfort  when  I  see  you  live. 

[Death  halloo  is  heard  without. 


Ponteach  187 

MRS.  HONNYMAN. 

Hark!  they  are  coming — Hear  that  dreadful  Halloo. 
HONNYMAN. 

It  is  Death's  solemn  Sentence  to  us  all; 

They  are  resolv'd,  and  all  Entreaty's  vain. 

Oh,  horrid  Scene!  how  shall  I  act  my  Part? 

Was  it  but  simple  Death  to  me  alone ! 

But  all  your  Deaths  are  mine,  and  mine  the  Guilt. 

Enter  INDIANS  with  stakes,  hatchets,  and  firebrands. 
Oh,  horrid  Preparation,  more  than  Death! 
PONTEACH. 

Plant  down  the  Stakes,  and  let  them  be  confin'd : 

[They  loose  them  from  each  other. 
First  kill  the  Tygers,  then  destroy  their  Whelps. 

PHILIP. 

This  Brat  is  in  our  Way,  I  will  dispatch  it. 

[Offering  to  snatch  the  sucking  infant. 

MRS.  HONNYMAN. 

No,  my  dear  Babe  shall  in  my  Bosom  die; 
There  is  its  Nourishment,  and  there  its  End. 

PHILIP. 

Die  both  together  then,  'twill  mend  the  Sport; 
Tie  the  other  to  his  Father,  make  a  Pair; 
Then  each  will  have  a  Consort  in  their  Pains; 
Their  sweet  Brats  with  them,  to  increase  the  Dance. 

[They  are  tied  down,  facing  each  other  upon  their  knees,  and 
their  backs  to  the  stakes. 

WARRIOR. 

All  now  is  ready;  they  are  bound  secure. 

PHILIP. 

Whene'er  you  please,  their  jovial  Dance  begins. 

[To  PONTEACH. 


1 88  Representative  Plays 

MRS.  HONNYMAN. 

Oh,  my  dear  Husband!  What  a  Sight  is  this! 

Could  ever  fabling  Poet  draw  Distress 

To  such  Perfection!   Sad  Catastrophe! 

There  are  not  Colours  for  such  deep-dyed  Woe, 

Nor  words  expressive  of  such  heighten'd  Anguish. 

Ourselves,  our  Babes,  O  cruel,  cruel  Fate! 

This,  this  is  Death  indeed  with  all  its  Terrors. 

HONNYMAN. 

Is  there  no  secret  Pity  in  your  Minds? 
Can  you  not  feel  some  tender  Passion  move, 
When  you  behold  the  Innocent  distress'd? 
True,  I  am  guilty,  and  will  bear  your  Tortures: 
Take  your  Revenge  by  all  the  Arts  of  Torment; 
Invent  new  Torments,  lengthen  out  my  Woe, 
And  let  me  feel  the  keenest  Edge  of  Pain: 
But  spare  this  innocent  afflicted  Woman, 
Those  smiling  Babes  who  never  yet  thought  III, 
They  never  did  nor  ever  will  offend  you. 

PHILIP. 

It  cannot  be:  They  are  akin  to  you. 
Well  learnt  to  hunt  and  murder,  kill  and  rob. 

PONTEACH. 

Who  ever  spar'd  a  Serpent  in  the  Egg? 
Or  left  young  Tygers  quiet  in  their  Den? 

WARRIOR. 
Or  cherishes  young  Vipers  in  his  Bosom? 

PHILIP. 
Begin,  begin;   I'll  lead  the  merry  Dance. 

[Offering  at  the  woman  with  a  firebrand. 

PONTEACH. 

'Stop:  Are  we  not  unwise  to  kill  this  Woman? 
Or  Sacrifice  her  Children  to  our  Vengeance? 
They  have  not  wrong'd  us;  can't  do  present  Mischief. 
I  know  her  Friends;  they're  rich  and  powerful, 


Ponteach  189 

And  in  their  Turn  will  take  severe  Revenge: 

But  if  we  spare,  they'll  hold  themselves  oblig'd, 

And  purchase  their  Redemption  with  rich  Presents. 

Is  not  this  better  than  an  Hour's  Diversion, 

To  hear  their  Groans,  and  Plaints,  and  piteous  Cries! 

WARRIORS. 

Your  Counsel  's  wise,  and  much  deserves  our  Praise; 
They  shall  be  spar.'d. 

PONTEACH. 
Untie,  and  take  them  hence; 

[They  untie  the  woman  and  the  oldest  child  from  HONNYMAN, 

and  retire  a  little  to  consult  his  death. 
When  the  War  ends  her  Friends  shall  pay  us  for  it. 

PHILIP. 
I'd  rather  have  the  Sport  than  all  the  Pay. 

HONNYMAN. 

O,  now,  kind  Heaven,  thou  hast  heard  my  Prayer, 
And  what's  to  follow  I  can  meet  with  Patience. 

MRS.  HONNYMAN. 

Oh,  my  dear  husband,  could  you  too  be  freed! 

[Weeping. 

Yet  must  I  stay  and  suffer  Torments  with  you. 
This  seeming  Mercy  is  but  Cruelty! 
I  cannot  leave  you  in  this  Scene  of  Woe, 
Tis  easier  far  to  stay  and  die  together ! 

HONNYMAN. 

Ah !  but  regard  our  Children's  Preservation : 
Conduct  their  Youth,  and  form  their  Minds  to  Virtue; 
Nor  let  them  know  their  Father's  wretched  End, 
Lest  lawless  Vengeance  should  betray  them  too. 

MRS.  HONNYMAN. 

If  I  must  live,  I  must  retire  from  hence, 
Nor  see  your  fearful  Agonies  in  Death; 
This  would  be  more  than  all  the  Train  of  Torments. 
The  horrid  Sight  would  sink  me  to  the  Dust; 


190  Representative  Plays 

These  helpless  Infants  would  become  a  Prey 
To  worse  than  Beasts,  to  savage,  bloody  Men. 

HONNYMAN. 

Leave  me — They  are  prepar'd,  and  coming  on — • 
Heav'n  save  you  all!   Oh,  'tis  the  last  dear  Sight! 

MRS.  HONNYMAN. 

Oh,  may  we  meet  where  Fear  and  Grief  are  banish'd! 
Dearest  of  Men,  adieu — Adieu  till  then. 

[Exit,  weeping  with  her  children. 

PHILIP. 

Bring  Fire  and  Knives,  and  Clubs,  and  Hatchets  all ; 
Let  the  old  Hunter  feel  the  Smart  of  Pain. 

[They  fall  upon  HONNYMAN  with  various  instruments  of 
torture. 

HONNYMAN. 
Oh!  this  is  exquisite!  [Groaning  and  struggling. 

IST  WARRIOR. 
Hah !  Does  this  make  you  dance? 

2ND  WARRIOR. 
This  is  fine  fat  Game! 

PHILIP. 

Make  him  caper.  [Striking  him  with  a  club,  kicking,  &c. 

HONNYMAN. 

O  ye  eternal  Powers,  that  rule  on  high, 
If  in  your  Minds  be  Sense  of  human  Woe, 
Hear  my  Complaints,  and  pity  my  Distress T 

PHILIP. 

Ah,  call  upon  your  Gods,  you  faint-heart  Coward! 
HONNYMAN. 

Oh,  dreadful  Racks!    When  will  this  Torment  end? 

Oh,  for  a  Respite  from  all  Sense  of  Pain! 

'Tis  come — I  go — You  can — no  more  torment.  [Dies. 


Pon  teach  191 

PHILIP. 

He's  dead ;  he'll  hunt  no  more ;  h'  'as  done  with  Game. 

[Striking  the  dead  body,  and  spitting  in  the  face. 

PONTEACH. 

Drive  hence  his  wretched  Spirit,  lest  it  plague  us; 
Let  him  go  hunt  the  Woods;  he's  now  disarm'd. 

[They  run  round  brushing  the  walls,   &*c.,   to  dislodge  the 
spirit. 

ALL. 

Out,  Hunter,  out,  your  Business  here  is  done. 
Out  to  the  Wilds,  but  do  not  take  your  Gun. 

PONTEACH  [to  the  Spirit]. 

Go,  tell  our  Countrymen,  whose  Blood  you  shed, 
That  the  great  Hunter  Honnyman  is  dead: 
That  we're  alive,  we'll  make  the  English  know, 
Whene'er  they  dare  to  serve  us  Indians  so: 
This  will  be  joyful  News  to  Friends  from  France, 
We'll  join  the  Chorus  then,  and  have  a  Dance. 

[Exeunt  omnes,  dancing,  and  singing  the  last  two  lines. 

End  of  the  Fourth  Act. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.    The  Border  of  a  Grove,  in  which  MONELIA  awdTc-RAx 
are  asleep. 

Enter  PHILIP  [speaking  to  himself]. 

As  a  dark  Tempest  brewing  in  the  Air, 

For  many  Days  hides  Sun  and  Moon,  and  Stars, 

At  length  grown  ripe,  bursts  forth  and  forms  a  Flood 

That  frights  both  Men  and  Beasts,  and  drowns  the  Land; 

So  my  dark  Purpose  now  must  have  its  Birth, 

Long  nourish'd  in  my  Bosom,  'tis  matur'd, 

And  ready  to  astonish  and  embroil 

Kings  and  their  Kingdoms,  and  decide  their  Fates. 

Are  they  not  here?   Have  I  delay 'd  too  long? 

[He  espies  them  asleep. 


1 92  Representative  Plays 

Yes,  in  a  Posture  too  beyond  my  Hopes, 
Asleep !  This  is  the  Providence  of  Fate, 
And  proves  she  patronizes  my  Design, 
And  I'll  show  her  that  Philip  is  no  Coward. 

[Taking  up  his  hatchet  in  one  hand,  and  scalping  knife  in 

the  other,  towards  them.  ] 

A  Moment  now  is  more  than  Years  to  come: 
Intrepid  as  I  am,  the  Work  is  shocking. 

[He  retreats  from  them. 

Is  it  their  Innocence  that  shakes  my  Purpose? 
No;  I  can  tear  the  Suckling  from  the  Breast, 
And  drink  their  Blood  who  never  knew  a  Crime. 
Is  it  because  my  Brother's  Charmer  dies? 
That  cannot  be,  for  that  is  my  Revenge. 
Is  it  because  Monelia  is  a  Woman? 
I've  long  been  blind  and  deaf  to  their  Enchantments. 
Is  it  because  I  take  them  thus  unguarded? 
No;  though  I  act  the  Coward,  it's  a  Secret. 
What  is  it  shakes  my  firm  and  fix'd  Resolve? 
'Tis  childish  Weakness:  I'll  not  be  unman'd. 

[Approaches  and  retreats  again. 
There's  something  awful  in  the  Face  of  Princes, 
And  he  that  sheds  their  Blood,  assaults  the  Gods: 
But  I'm  a  Prince,  and  'tis  by  me  they  die; 

[Advances  arni'd  as  before. 
Each  Hand  contains  the  Fate  of  future  Kings, 
And,  were  they  Gods,  I  would  not  balk  my  Purpose. 

[Stabs  MONELIA  with  the  knife. 

TORAX. 
Hah!  Philip,  are  you  come?    What  can  you  mean? 

[TORAX  starts  and  cries  out. 

PHILIP. 

Go  learn  my  Meaning  in  the  World  of  Spirits; 

[Knocks  him  down  with  his  hatchet,  &c. 
'Tis  now  too  late  to  make  a  Question  of  it. 
The  Play  is  ended    [Looking  upon  the  bodies],   now  succeeds 
the  Farce. 


Ponteach  193 

Hullo!   Help!   Haste!   the  Enemy  is  here. 

[Calling  at  one  of  the  doors,  and  returning. 

Help  is  at  Hand — But  I  must  first  be  wounded:   [Wounds  himself. 
Now  let  the  Gods  themselves  detect  the  Fraud. 

Enter  an  INDIAN. 

INDIAN. 
What  means  your  Cry?    Is  any  Mischief  here? 

PHILIP. 
Behold  this  flowing  Blood ;  a  desperate  Wound ! 

[Shewing  his  wound. 
And  there's  a  Deed  that  shakes  the  Root  of  Empires. 

[Pointing  to  the  bodies. 
2ND  INDIAN. 
Oh,  fatal  Sight !  the  Mohawk  Prince  is  murder'd. 

3RD  INDIAN. 
The  Princess  too  is  weltering  in  her  Blood. 

PHILIP. 
Both,  both  are  gone;  'tis  well  that  I  escap'd. 

Enter  PONTEACH. 

PONTEACH. 
What  means  this  Outcry,  Noise,  and  Tumult  here? 

PHILIP. 

Oh  see,  my  Father!  see  the  Blood  of  Princes, 
A  Sight  that  might  provoke  the  Gods  to  weep, 
And  drown  the  Country  in  a  Flood  of  Tears. 
Great  was  my  Haste,  but  could  not  stop  the  Deed; 
I  rush'd  among  their  Numbers  for  Revenge, 
They  frighted  fled;  there  I  receiv'd  this  Wound. 

[Shewing  his  wound  to  PONTEACH. 

PONTEACH. 
Who,  what  were  they?  or  where  did  they  escape? 

PHILIP. 
A  Band  of  English  Warriors,  bloody  Dogs ! 


194  Representative  Plays 

This  Way  they  ran  from  my  vindictive  Arm,          [Pointing,  &c. 
Which  but  for  this  base  Wound  would  sure  have  stopp'd  them. 

PONTEACH. 

Pursue,  pursue,  with  utmost  Speed  pursue, 

[To  the  WARRIORS  present. 
Outfly  the  Wind  till  you  revenge  this  Blood ; 
'Tis  royal  Blood,  we  count  it  as  our  own. 

[Exeunt  WARRIORS  in  haste. 
This  Scene  is  dark,  and  doubtful  the  Event ; 
Some  great  Decree  of  Fate  depends  upon  it, 
And  mighty  Good  or  111  awaits  Mankind. 
The  Blood  of  Princes  cannot  flow  in  vain, 
The  Gods  must  be  in  Council  to  permit  it: 
It  is  the  Harbinger  of  their  Designs, 
To  change,  new-mould,  and  alter  Things  on  Earth: 
And  much  I  fear,  'tis  ominous  of  111, 
To  me  and  mine;  it  happen'd  in  my  Kingdom. 
Their  Father's  Rage  will  swell  into  a  Torrent — 
They  were  my  Guests — His  Wrath  will  centre  here; 
Our  guilty  Land  hath  drunk  his  Children's  Blood. 

PHILIP. 

Had  I  not  seen  the  flying  Murderers, 

Myself  been  wounded  to  revenge  their  Crime, 

Had  you  not  hasten'd  to  pursue  the  assassins, 

He  might  have  thought  us  treacherous  and  false, 

Or  wanting  in  our  hospitable  Care: 

But  now  it  cannot  but  engage  his  Friendship, 

Rouse  him  to  Arms,  and  with  a  Father's  Rage 

He'll  point  his  Vengeance  where  it  ought  to  fall; 

And  thus  this  Deed,  though  vile  and  dark  as  Night, 

In  its  Events  will  open  Day  upon  us, 

And  prove  of  great  Advantage  to  our  State. 

PONTEACH. 

Haste  then;  declare  our  Innocence  and  Grief; 
Tell  the  old  King  we  mourn  as  for  our  own, 
And  are  determin'd  to  revenge  his  Wrongs; 
Assure  him  that  our  Enemies  are  his, 
And  rouse  him  like  a  Tyger  to  the  Prey. 


Ponteach  195 

PHILIP. 

I  will  with  Speed ;  but  first  this  bleeding  Wound 
Demands  my  Care,  lest  you  lament  me  too. 

[Exit,  to  have  his  wound  dress' d. 

PONTEACH  [solus]. 
Pale,  breathless  Youths!  Your  Dignity  still  lives: 

[Viewing  the  bodies. 

Your  Murderers  were  blind,  or  they'd  have  trembled, 
Nor  dar'd  to  wound  such  Majesty  and  Worth; 
It  would  have  tam'd  the  savage  running  Bear, 
And  made  the  raging  Tyger  fondly  fawn ; 
But  your  more  savage  Murderers  were  Christians. 
Oh,  the  distress'd  good  King!   I  feel  for  him, 
And  wish  to  comfort  his  desponding  Heart; 
But  your  last  Rites  require  my  present  Care.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.    The  Senate-House. 
PONTEACH,  TENESCO,  and  others. 

PONTEACH. 

Let  all  be  worthy  of  the  royal  Dead ; 
Spare  no  Expense  to  grace  th'  unhappy  Scene, 
And  aggrandize  the  solemn,  gloomy  Pomp 
With  all  our  mournful,  melancholy  Rites. 

TENESCO. 
It  shall  be  done;  all  Things  are  now  preparing. 

PONTEACH. 

Never  were  Funeral  Rites  bestow'd  more  just; 
Who  knew  them  living,  must  lament  them  dead; 
Who  sees  them  dead,  must  wish  to  grace  their  Tombs 
With  all  the  sad  Respect  of  Grief  and  Tears. 

TENESCO. 

The  Mourning  is  as  general  as  the  News; 
Grief  sits  on  every  Face,  in  every  Eye, 
And  gloomy  Melancholy  in  Silence  reigns: 
Nothing  is  heard  but  Sighs  and  sad  Complaints, 
As  if  the  First-born  of  the  Realm  were  slain. 


196  Representative  Plays 

PONTEACH. 

Thus  would  I  have  it;  let  no  Eye  be  dry, 

No  Heart  unmov'd,  let  every  Bosom  swell 

With  Sighs  and  Groans.   What  Shouting  do  I  hear? 

[A  shouting  without,  repeated  several  times. 

TENESCO. 

It  is  the  Shout  of  Warriors  from  the  Battle; 
The  Sound  of  Victory  and  great  Success. 

[He  goes  to  listen  to  it. 

PONTEACH. 

Such  is  the  State  of  Men  and  human  Things; 
We  weep,  we  smile,  we  mourn,  and  laugh  thro'  Life, 
Here  falls  a  Blessing,  there  alights  a  Curse, 
As  the  good  Genius  or  the  evil  reigns. 
It's  right  it  should  be  so.    Should  either  conquer, 
The  World  would  cease,  and  Mankind  be  undone 
By  constant  Frowns  or  Flatteries  from  Fate; 
This  constant  Mixture  makes  the  Potion  safe, 
And  keeps  the  sickly  Mind  of  Man  in  Health. 

Enter  CHEKITAN. 
It  is  my  Son.   What  has  been  your  Success? 

CHEKITAN. 

We've  fought  the  Enemy,  broke  thro'  their  Ranks, 
Slain  many  on  the  Spot,  pursu'd  the  rest 
Till  Night  conceal'd  and  sav'd  them  from  our  Arms. 

PONTEACH. 

'Tis  bravely  done,  and  shall  be  duly  honour'd 
With  all  the  Signs  and  Marks  of  public  Joy. 

CHEKITAN. 

What  means  this  Gloom  I  see  in  every  Face? 
These  smother 'd  Groans  and  stifled  half-drawn  Sighs; 
Does  it  offend  that  I've  return'd  in  Triumph? 

PONTEACH. 

I  fear  to  name — And  yet  it  must  be  known.  [Aside. 

Be  not  alarm'd,  my  Son,  the  Laws  of  Fate 
Must  be  obey'd:  She  will  not  hear  our  Dictates. 


Ponteach  197 

I'm  not  a  Stranger  to  your  youthful  Passion, 
And  fear  the  Disappointment  will  confound  you. 

CHEKITAN. 
Has  he  not  sped?    Has  ill  befell  my  Brother? 

PONTEACH. 

Yes,  he  is  wounded  but — Monelia's  slain, 
And  Torax  both.    Slain  by  the  cowardly  English, 
Who  'scap'd  your  Brother's  wounded  threat'ning  Arm, 
But  are  pursued  by  such  as  will  revenge  it. — 

CHEKITAN. 
Oh  wretched,  wretched,  wretched  Chekitan!  [Aside. 

PONTEACH. 

I  know  you're  shock'd — The  Scene  has  shock'd  us  all, 
And  what  we  could,  we've  done  to  wipe  the  Stain 
From  us,  our  Family,  our  Land  and  State; 
And  now  prepare  due  Honours  for  the  Dead, 
With  all  the  solemn  Pomp  of  public  Grief, 
To  shew  Respect  as  if  they  were  our  own. 

CHEKITAN. 

Is  this  my  Triumph  after  Victory? 
A  solemn,  dreadful  pompous  Shew: 

Why  have  I  'scap'd  their  Swords  and  liv'd  to  see  it?          [Aside. 
Monelia  dead!  aught  else  I  could  have  borne: 
I'm  stupefy 'd:  I  can't  believe  it  true; 
Shew  me  the  Dead ;  I  will  believe  my  Eyes, 
But  cannot  mourn  or  drop  a  Tear  till  then. 

TENESCO. 
I  will  conduct  you  to  them — Follow  me — 

[Exeunt  TENESCO  and  CHEKITAN. 

PONTEACH. 

This  is  a  sad  Reception  from  a  Conquest, 
And  puts  an  awful  Gloom  upon  our  Joy; 
I  fear  his  Grief  will  overtop  his  Reason ; 
A  Lover  weeps  with  more  than  common  Pain. 
Nor  flows  his  greatest  Sorrow  at  his  Eyes: 
His  Grief  is  inward,  and  his  Heart  sheds  Tears, 


198  Representative  Plays 

And  in  his  Soul  he  feels  the  pointed  Woe, 

When  he  beholds  the  lovely  Object  lost. 

The  deep-felt  Wound  admits  no  sudden  Cure; 

The  festering  Humour  will  not  be  dispers'd, 

It  gathers  on  the  Mind,  and  Time  alone, 

That  buries  all  Things,  puts  an  End  to  this.          [Exeunt  omnes. 


SCENE  III.    The  Grove,  with  the  dead  bodies;    TENESCO  pointing 
CHEKITAN  to  them. 

TENESCO. 

There  lie  the  Bodies,  Prince,  a  wretched  Sight! 
Breathless  and  pale. 

CHEKITAN. 

A  wretched  Sight  indeed ;  {Going  towards*  them. 

Oh,  my  Monelia;  has  thy  Spirit  fled? 
Art  thou  no  more?  a  bloody,  breathless  Corpse! 
Am  I  return'd  full  flush'd  with  Hopes  of  Joy, 
With  all  the  Honours  Victory  can  give, 
To  see  thee  thus?   Is  this,  is  this  my  Welcome? 
Is  this  our  Wedding?   Wilt  thou  not  return? 
Oh,  charming  Princess,  art  thou  gone  for  ever? 
Is  this  the  fatal  Period  of  our  Love? 
Oh!  had  I  never  seen  thy  Beauty  bloom, 
I  had  not  now  been  griev'd  to  see  it  pale: 
Had  I  not  known  such  Excellence  had  liv'd, 
I  should  not  now  be  curs'd  to  see  it  dead : 
Had  not  my  Heart  been  melted  by  thy  Charms, 
It  would  not  now  have  bled  to  see  them  lost. 
Oh,  wherefore,  wherefore,  wherefore  do  I  live: 
Monelia  is  not — What's  the  World  to  me? 
All  dark  and  gloomy,  horrid,  waste,  and  void: 
The  Light  of  the  Creation  is  put  out! — 
The  Blessings  of  the  Gods  are  all  withdrawn! 
Nothing  remains  but  Wretchedness  and  Woe; 
Monelia's  gone;  Monelia  is  no  more. 
The  Heavens  are  veil'd  because  she  don't  behold  them: 
The  Earth  is  curs'd,  for  it  hath  drunk  her  Blood; 
The  Air  is  Poison,  for  she  breathes  no  more: 
Why  fell  I  not  by  the  base  Briton's  Sword? 


Ponteach  199 

Why  press'd  I  not  upon  the  fatal  Point? 
Then  had  I  never  seen  this  worse  than  Death, 
But  dying  said,  'tis  well — Monelia  lives. 

TENESCO. 

Comfort,  my  Prince,  nor  let  your  Passion  swell 
To  such  a  Torrent,  it  o'erwhelms  your  Reason, 
And  preys  upon  the  Vitals  of  your  Soul. 
You  do  but  feed  the  Viper  by  this  View; 
Retire,  and  drive  the  Image  from  your  Thought, 
And  Time  will  soon  replace  your  every  Joy. 

CHEKITAN. 

0  my  Tenesco,  had  you  ever  felt 

The  gilded  Sweets,  or  pointed  Pains  of  Love, 
You'd  not  attempt  to  sooth  a  Grief  like  mine. 
Why  did  you  point  me  to  the  painful  Sight? 
Why  have  you  shown  this  Shipwreck  of  my  Hopes, 
And  plac'd  me  in  this  beating  Storm  of  Woe? 
Why  was  I  told  of  my  Monelia's  Fate? 
Why  wa'n't  the  wretched  Ruin  all  conceal'd 
Under  some  fair  Pretence — That  she  ha'd  fled — 
Was  made  a  Captive,  or  had  chang'd  her  Love — 
Why  wa'n't  I  left  to  guess  her  wretched  End? 
Or  have  some  slender  Hope  that  she  still  liv'd? 
You've  all  been  cruel;  she  died  to  torment  me; 
To  raise  my  Pain,  and  blot  out  every  Joy. — 

TENESCO. 

1  fear'd  as  much:  His  Passion  makes  him  wild —  [Aside. 
I  wish  it  may  not  end  in  perfect  Frenzy. 

CHEKITAN. 

Who  were  the  Murderers?    Where  did  they  fly? 

Where  was  my  Brother,  not  to  take  Revenge? 

Show  me  their  Tracks,  I'll  trace  them  round  the  Globe; 

I'll  fly  like  Lightning,  ravage  the  whole  Earth — 

Kill  every  thing  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see. 

Depopulate  the  World  of  Men  and  Beasts, 

Tis  all  too  little  for  that  single  Death. 

[Pointing  to  MONELIA'S  corpse 


Representative  Plays 

I'll  tear  the  Earth  that  dar'd  to  drink  her  Blood; 
Kill  Trees,  and  Plants,  and  every  springing  Flower: 
Nothing  shall  grow,  nothing  shall  be  alive, 
Nothing  shall  move;  I'll  try  to  stop  the  Sun, 
And  make  all  dark  and  barren,  dead  and  sad; 
From  his  tall  Sphere  down  to  the  lowest  Centre, 
There  I'll  descend,  and  hide  my  wretched  Self, 
And  reign  sole  Monarch  in  a  World  of  Ruin. 

TENESCO. 
This  is  deep  Madness,  it  hath  seiz'd  his  Brain.  [Aside.. 

CHEKITAN. 
But  first  I'll  snatch  a  parting  last  Embrace. 

[He  touches  and  goes  to  embrace  the  corpse. 
Thou  dear  cold  Clay!  forgive  the  daring  Touch; 
It  is  thy  Chekitan,  thy  wounded  Lover. 
'Tis;  and  he  hastens  to  revenge  thy  Death. 

[ToRAX  groans  and  attempts  to  speak. 
TORAX. 
Oh,  oh,  I  did  not— Philip— Philip— Oh. 

[CHEKITAN  starts. 
CHEKITAN. 
What — did  I  not  hear  a  Groan?  and  Philip  call'd? 

TENESCO. 
It  was,  it  was,  and  there  is  Motion  too. 

[Approaches  TORAX,  who  groans  and  speaks  again. 

TORAX. 
Oh !  Oh !  Oh !  Oh !  Oh !  Philip— help.    Oh !  Oh ! 

TENESCO. 
He  is  alive — We'll  raise  him  from  the  Ground. 

[They  lift  him  up,  and  speak  to  him. 
Torax,  are  you  alive?  or  are  our  Ears  deceiv'd? 

TORAX. 
Oh,  Philip,  do  not — do  not — be  so  cruel. 

CHEKITAN. 

He  is  bewilder'd,  and  not  yet  himself. 
Pour  this  into  his  Lips — it  will  revive  him. 

[They  give  him  something. 


Ponteach  201 

TENESCO. 

This  is  a  Joy  unhop'd  for  in  Distress. 

[ToRAX  revives  more. 

TORAX. 

Oh!  Philip,  Philip!— Where  is  Philip  gone? 

TENESCO. 

The  Murderers  are  pursued — He  will  go  soon. 
And  now  can  carry  Tidings  of  your  Life. 

TORAX. 
He  carry  Tidings!  he's  the  Murderer. 

TENESCO. 

He  is  not  murder'd;  he  was  slightly  wounded, 
And  hastens  now  to  see  the  King  your  Father. 

TORAX. 

He  is  false,  a  barbarous,  bloody  Man, 
A  Murderer,  a  base  disguis'd  Assassin. 

CHEKITAN. 
He  still  is  maz'd,  and  knows  not  whom  he's  with 

TORAX. 
Yes,  you  are  Chekitan,  and  that's  Monelia. 

[Pointing  to  the  corpse. 
This  is  Tenesco — Philip  stabb'd  my  Sister, 
And  struck  at  me;  here  was  the  stunning  Blow. 

[Pointing  to  his  head. 
He  took  us  sleeping  in  this  silent  Grove; 
There  by  Appointment  from  himself  we  waited. 
I  saw  him  draw  the  bloody  Knife  from  her, 
And,  starting,  ask'd  him,  Why,  or  what  he  meant? 
He  answered  with  the  Hatchet  on  my  Skull, 
And  doubtless  thought  me  dead  and  bound  in  Silence. 
I  am  myself,  and  what  I  say  is  Fact. 

TENESCO. 

The  English  'twas  beset  you;  Philip  ran 
For  your  Assistance,  and  himself  is  wounded. 


2O2  Representative  Plays 

TORAX. 

He  may  be  wounded,  but  he  wounded  me; 

No  Englishman  was  there,  he  was  alone. 

I  dare  confront  him  with  his  Villainy : 

Depend  upon  't,  he's  treacherous,  false,  and  bloody. 

CHEKITAN. 

May  we  believe,  or  is  this  all  a  Dream? 
Are  we  awake?    Is  Torax  yet  alive? 
Or  is  it  Juggling,  Fascination  all? 

TENESCO. 

'Tis  most  surprising!    What  to  judge  I  know  not. 
I'll  lead  him  hence;  perhaps  he's  still  confus'd. 

TORAX. 

I  gladly  will  go  hence  for  some  Relief, 
But  shall  not  change,  from  what  I've  now  aver'd. 

TENESCO. 

Then  this  sad  Storm  of  Ruin  's  but  begun.  [Aside. 

Philip  must  fly,  or  next  it  lights  on  him. 

[Exeunt  TENESCO  and  TORAX  led  by  him. 

CHEKITAN. 

And  can  this  be — Can  Philip  be  so  false? 
Dwells  there  such  Baseness  in  a  Brother's  Heart? 
So  much  Dissimulation  in  the  Earth? 
Is  there  such  Perfidy  among  Mankind? 
.It  shocks  my  Faith — But  yet  it  must  be  so — 
Yes,  it  was  he,  Monelia,  shed  thy  Blood. 
This  made  him  forward  to  commence  our  Friend, 
And  with  unusual  Warmth  engage  to  help  us; 
It  was  for  this  so  cheerful  he  resign'd 
To  me  the  Honour  of  Command  in  War; 
The  English  Troops  would  never  come  so  near; 
The  Wounds  were  not  inflicted  by  their  Arms. 
All,  all  confirms  the  Guilt  on  Philip's  Head. 
You  died,  Monelia,  by  my  Brother's  Hand; 
A  Brother  too  intrusted  with  our  Love. 
I'm  stupify'd  and  senseless  at  the  Thought; 
My  Head,  my  very  Heart  is  petrify'd. 


Ponteach  203 

This  adds  a  Mountain  to  my  Weight  of  Woe. 

It  now  is  swell'd  too  high  to  be  lamented; 

Complaints,  and  Sighs,  and  Tears  are  thrown  away, 

Revenge  is  all  the  Remedy  that's  left; 

But  what  Revenge  is  equal  to  the  Crime? 

His  Life  for  her's!   An  Atom  for  the  Earth — 

A  Single  Fly — a  Mite  for  the  Creation: 

Turn  where  I  will  I  find  myself  confounded : 

But  I  must  seek  and  study  out  new  Means. 

Help  me,  ye  Powers  of  Vengeance!  grant  your  Aid, 

Ye  that  delight  in  Blood,  and  Dea.th,  and  Pain! 

Teach  me  the  Arts  of  Cruelty  and  Wrath, 

Till  I  have  Vengeance  equal  to  my  Love, 

And  my  Monelia's  Shade  is  satisfied.  [Exit. 


SCENE  IV. 

PHILIP  [solus]. 

His  Grief  no  Doubt  will  rise  into  a  Rage, 

To  see  his  Charmer  rolling  in  her  Blood, 

I  choose  to  see  him  not  till  my  Return ; 

By  then  the  Fierceness  of  the  Flame  may  cease; 

Nay,  he'll  grow  cool,  and  quite  forget  his  Love, 

When  I  report  her  Father's  kindled  Wrath, 

And  all  the  Vengeance  he  intends  to  take. 

[CHEKITAN  comes  in 
But  this  is  he,  I  cannot  now  avoid  him; 
How  shall  I  soothe  his  Grief — He  looks  distracted — 
I'm  such  a  Stranger  grown  to  Tears  and  Pity, 
I  fear  he  will  not  think  I  sympathize. 

Enter  CHEKITAN. 
CHEKITAN. 

Have  I  then  found  thee,  thou  false  hearted  Traitor? 
Thou  Tyger,  Viper,  Snake,  thou  worse  than  Christian; 
Bloodthirsty  Butcher,  more  than  Murderer! 
Thou  every  Thing  but  what  Men  ought  to  love ! 
Do  you  still  live  to  breathe  and  see  the  Sun? 
And  face  me  with  your  savage  guilty  Eye? 


204  Representative  Plays 

PHILIP. 

I  fear'd,  alas,  you  would  run  mad  and  rave. 
Why  do  you  blame  me  that  I  am  not  dead? 
I  risk'd  my  Life,  was  wounded  for  your  Sake, 
Did  all  I  could  for  your  Monelia's  Safety, 
And  to  revenge  you  on  her  Murderers. 
Your  Grief  distracts  you,  or  you'd  thank  me  for  't. 

CHEKITAN. 

Would  you  still  tempt  my  Rage,  and  fire  my  Soul, 
Already  bent  to  spill  your  treacherous  Blood? 
You  base  Dissembler!  know  you  are  detected, 
Torax  still  lives,  and  has  discover'd  all. 

[PHILIP  starts  and  trembles. 
PHILIP. 
Torax  alive! — It  cannot — must  not  be.  [Aside. 

CHEKITAN. 

Well  may  you  shake — You  cannot  mend  your  Blow. 
He  lived  to  see,  what  none  but  you  could  think  of, 
The  bloody  Knife  drawn  from  Monelia's  Breast. 
Had  you  a  thousand  Lives,  they'd  be  too  few; 
Had  you  a  Sea  of  Blood,  't  would  be  too  small 
To  wash  away  your  deep-dy'd  Stain  of  Guilt. 
Now  you  shall  die;  and  Oh,  if  there  be  Powers 
That  after  Death  take  Vengeance  on  such  Crimes, 
May  they  pursue  you  with  their  Flames  of  Wrath, 
Till  all  their  Magazines  of  Pain  are  spent. 

[He  attacks  PHILIP  with  his  hatchet. 

PHILIP. 

I  must  defend  myself    [Drawing  his  hatchet],  the  Case  is  des 
perate.  [Fights;  PHILIP  falls. 
Fate  is  too  hard;  and  I'm  oblig'd  to  yield. 
'Twas  well  begun — but  has  a  wretched  End — 
Yet  I'm  reveng'd — She  cannot  live  again. 
You  cannot  boast  to  've  shed  more  Blood  than  I — 
Oh,  had  I — had  I — struck  but  one  Blow  more!  [Dies. 

CHEKITAN. 

What  have  I  done !  this  is  my  Brother's  Blood ! 
A  guilty  Murderer's  Blood!   He  was  no  Brother. 


Ponteach  205 

All  Nature's  Laws  and  Ties  are  hence  dissolv'd; 

There  is  no  Kindred,  Friendship,  Faith,  or  Love 

Among  Mankind — Monelia's  dead — The  World 

Is  all  unhing'd — There's  universal  War — 

She  was  the  Tie,  the  Centre  of  the  Whole; 

And  she  remov'd,  all  is  one  general  Jar. 

Where  next,  Monelia,  shall  I  bend  my  Arm 

To  heal  this  Discord,  this  Disorder  still, 

And  bring  the  Chaos  Universe  to  Form? 

Blood  still  must  flow  and  float  the  scatter'd  Limbs 

Till  thy  much  injur'd  love  in  Peace  subsides. 

Then  every  jarring  Discord  once  will  cease, 

And  a  new  World  from  these  rude  Ruins  rise.  [Pauses. 

jiere  then  I  point  the  Edge,  from  hence  shall  flow 

[Pointing  his  knife  to  his  heart. 
The  raging  crimson  Flood,  this  is  the  Fountain 
Whose  swift  Day's  Stream  shall  waft  me  to  thy  Arms, 
Lest  Philip's  Ghost  should  injure  thy  Repose.         [Stabs  himself. 
-*I  come,  I  come — Monelia,  now  I  come — 
Philip — away — She's  mine  in  spite  of  Death.  [Dies. 

Enter  TENESCO. 

TENESCO. 

Oh!  I'm  too  late,  the  fatal  Work  is  done. 
Unhappy  Princes;  this  your  wretched  End; 
Your  Country's  Hopes  and  your  fond  Father's  Joy; 
Are  you  no  more?   Slain  by  each  other's  Hands, 
Or  what  is  worse;  or  by  the  Air  you  breath 'd? 
For  all  is  Murder,  Death,  and  Blood  about  us: 
Nothing  safe ;  it  is  contagious  all : 
The  Earth,  and  Air,  and  Skies  are  full  of  Treason! 
The  Evil  Genius  rules  the  Universe, 
And  on  Mankind  rains  Tempests  of  Destruction. 
Where  will  the  Slaughter  of  the  Species  end? 
When  it  begins  with  Kings  and  with  their  Sons, 
A  general  Ruin  threatens  all  below. 
How  will  the  good  King  hear  the  sad  Report? 
I  fear  th'  Event;  but  as  it  can't  be  hid, 
I'll  bear  it  to  him  in  the  softest  Terms, 
And  summon  every  Power  to  soothe  his  Grief, 
And  slack  the  Torrent  of  his  Royal  Passion.  [Exit. 


206  Representative  Plays 

SCENE  V.   Senate-House. 

PONTEACH  [solus]. 

The  Torrent  rises,  and  the  Tempest  blows; 

Where  will  this  rough,  rude  Storm  of  Ruin  end? 

What  crimson  Floods  are  yet  to  drench  the  Earth? 

What  new-form 'd  Mischiefs  hover  in  the  Air, 

And  point  their  Stings  at  this  devoted  Head? 

Has  Fate  exhausted  all  her  Stores  of  Wrath, 

Or  has  she  other  Vengeance  in  reserve? 

What  can  she  more?   My  Sons,  my  Name  is  gone; 

My  Hopes  all  blasted,  my  Delights  all  fled; 

Nothing  remains  but  an  afflicted  King, 

That  might  be  pitied  by  Earth's  greatest  Wretch. 

My  Friends;  my  Sons,  ignobly,  basely  slain, 

Are  more  than  murder 'd,  more  than  lost  by  Death. 

Had  they  died  fighting  in  their  Country's  Cause, 

I  should  have  smil'd  and  gloried  in  their  Fall ; 

Yes,  boasting  that  I  had  such  Sons  to  lose, 

I  would  have  rode  in  Triumph  o'er  their  Tombs. 

But  thus  to  die,  the  Martyrs  of  their  Folly, 

Involv'd  in  all  the  complicated  Guilt 

Of  Treason,  Murder,  Falsehood,  and  Deceit, 

Unbridled  Passion,  Cowardice,  Revenge, 

And  every  Thing  that  can  debase  the  Man, 

And  render  him  the  just  Contempt  of  all, 

And  fix  the  foulest  Stain  of  Infamy, 

Beyond  the  Power  of  Time  to  blot  it  out; 

This  is  too  much ;  and  my  griev'd  Spirit  sinks 

Beneath  the  Weight  of  such  gigantic  Woe. 

Ye  that  would  see  a  piteous,  wretched  King, 

Look  on  a  Father  griev'd  and  curs'd  like  me; 

Look  on  a  King  whose  Sons  have  died  like  mine! 

Then  you'll  confess  that  these  are  dangerous  Names, 

And  put  it  in  the  Power  of  Fate  to  curse  us; 

It  is  on  such  she  shews  her  highest  Spite. 

But  I'm  too  far — 'Tis  not  a  Time  to  grieve 

For  private  Losses,  when  the  Public  calls. 

Enter  TENESCO,  looking  sorrowful. 
What  are  your  Tidings? — I  have  no  more  Sons. 


Ponteach  207 

TENESCO. 

But  you  have  Subjects,  and  regard  their  Safety. 
The  treacherous  Priest,  intrusted  with  your  Councils, 
Has  publish'd  all,  and  added  his  own  Falsehoods; 
The  Chiefs  have  all  revolted  from  your  Cause, 
Patch'd  up  a  Peace,  and  lend  their  Help  no  more.  — 

PONTEACH. 

And  is  this  all?  we  must  defend  ourselves, 
Supply  the  Place  of  Numbers  with  our  Couraj 
And  learn  to  conquer  with  our  very  Looks: 
This  is  a  Time  that  tries  the  Truth  of  Valour/ 
He  shows  his  Courage  that  dares  stem  the 
And  live  in  spite  of  Violence  and  Fate. 
Shall  holy  Perfidy  and  seeming  Lies 
Destroy  our  Purpose,  sink  us  into  Cowards? 

TENESCO. 

May  your  Hopes  prosper!    I'll  excite  the  Troops 

By  your  Example  still  to  keep  the  Field.  [Exit. 

PONTEACH. 

Tis  coming  on.    Thus  Wave  succeeds  to  Wave, 

Till  the  Storm's  spent,  then  all  subsides  again — 

The  Chiefs  revolted : — My  Design  betray'd : — 

May  he  that  trusts  a  Christian  meet  the  same; 

They  have  no  Faith,  no  Honesty,  no  God, 

And  cannot  merit  Confidence  from  Men. 

Were  I  alone  the  boist'rous  Tempest's  Sport, 

I'd  quickly  move  my  shatter'd,  trembling  Bark, 

And  follow  my  departed  Sons  to  Rest. 

But  my  brave  Countrymen,  my  Friends,  my  Subjects, 

Demand  my  Care:  I'll  not  desert  the  Helm, 

Nor  leave  a  dang'rous  Station  in  Distress; 

Yes,  I  will  live,  in  spite  of  Fate  I'll  live; 

Was  I  not  Ponteach,  was  I  not  a  King, 

Such  Giant  Mischiefs  would  not  gather  round  me. 

And  since  I'm  Ponteach,  since  I  am  a  King, , 

I'll  shew  myself  Superior  to  them  all;  / 

I'll  rise  above  this  Hurricane  of  Fate,         J 

And  shew  my  Courage  to  the  Gods  themselves. 


208  Representative  Plays 

Enter  TENESCO,  surprised  and  pausing. 

I  am  prepar'd,  be  not  afraid  to  tell;  / 

You  cannot  speak  what  Ponteach  dare  not  hearty 

TENESCO. 

Our  bravest  Troops  are  slain,  the  rest  pursu'd; 
All  is  Disorder,  Tumult,  and  Rebellion. 
Those  that  remain  insist  on  speedy  Flight; 
You  must  attend  them,  or  be  left  alone 
Unto  the  Fury  of  a  conquering  Foe, 
Nor  will  they  long  expect  your  Royal  Pleasure. 

PONTEACH. 

Will  they  desert  their  King  in  such  an  Hour, 
When  Pity  might  induce  them  to  protect  him? 
Kings  like  the  Gods  are  valued  and  ador'd, 
When  Men  expect  their  Bounties  in  Return, 
Place  them  in  Want,  destroy  the  giving  Power, 
All  Sacrifices  and  Regards  will  cease. 
Go,  tell  my  Friends  that  I'll  attend  their  Call. 

[Rising.   Exit  TENESCO. 

I  will  not  fear — but  must  obey  my  Stars:  [Looking  round. 

Ye  fertile  Fields  and  glad'ning  Streams,  adieu; 
Ye  Fountains  that  have  quench'd  my  scorching  Thirst, 
Ye  Shades  that  hid  the  Sun-beams  from  my  Head,  . 
Ye  Groves  and  Hills  that  yielded  me  the  Chace, 
Ye  flow'ry  Meads,  and  Banks,  and  bending  Trees, 
And  thou  proud  Earth,  made  drunk  with  Royal  Blood, 
I  am  no  more  your  Owner  and  your  King. 
But  witness  for  me  to  your  new  base  Lords,      \ 
That  my  unconquer'd  Mind  defies  them  still; 
And  though  I  fly,  'tis  on  the  Wings  of  Hope. 
Yes,  I  will  hence  where  there's  no  British  Foe, 
And  wait  a  Respite  from  this  Storm  of  Woe ; 
Beget  more  Sons,  fresh  Troops  collect  and  arm, 
And  other  Schemes  of  future  Greatness  form ; 
Britons  may  boast,  the  Gods  may  have  their  Will, 
Ponteach  I  am,  and  shall  be  Ponteach  still.        //  [Exit. 

Finis. 


THE   GROUP 

By  MRS.  MERCY  WARREN 


MRS.  MERCY  WARREN 


MRS.  MERCY  WARREN 

(1728-1814) 

Most  of  the  literature — orations  as  well  as  broadsides — created 
in  America  under  the  heat  of  the  Revolution,  was  of  a  strictly 
satirical  character.  Most  of  the  Revolutionary  ballads  sung  at 
the  time  were  bitter  with  hatred  against  the  Loyalist.  When 
the  conflict  actually  was  in  progress,  the  theatres  that  regaled 
the  Colonists  were  closed,  and  an  order  from  the  Continental 
Congress  declared  that  theatre-going  was  an  amusement  from 
which  all  patriotic  people  should  abstain.  These  orders  or 
resolutions  were  dated  October  12,  1778,  and  October  16.  (Seil- 
hamer,  ii,  51.)  The  playhouses  were  no  sooner  closed,  however — 
much  to  the  regret  of  Washington — than  their  doors  were 
thrown  wide  open  by  the  British  troops  stationed  in  Boston, 
New  York,  and  Philadelphia.  A  complete  history  of  the  Ameri 
can  stage  has  to  deal  with  Howe's  players,  Clinton's  players, 
and  Burgoyne's  players. 

Of  all  these  Red-Coat  Thespians,  two  demand  our  attention — 
one,  Major  Andre,  a  gay,  talented  actor;  the  other,  General JBur- 
goyne,  whose  pride  was  as  much  concerned  with  playwriting  as 
with  generalship.  The  latter  dipped  his  pen  in  the  satirical  ink 
pot,  and  wrote  a  farce,  "The  Blockade  of  Boston."  It  was 
this  play  that  drew  forth  from  a  woman,  an  American  play 
wright,  the  retort  stinging.  This  lady  was  Mrs.  Mercy  Warren1 
who,  although  distinguished  for  being  a  sister  of  James  Otis, 
and  the  wife  of  General  James  Warren,  was  in  her  own  name 
a  most  important  and  distinct  literary  figure  during  the 
Revolution. 

So  few  women  appear  in  the  early  history  of  American  Drama 
that  it  is  well  here  to  mention  Mrs.  Charlotte  Ramsay  Lennox 
(1720-1804)  and  Mrs.  Susanna  Rowson  (1762-1824).  The  for 
mer  has  the  reputation  of  being  the  first  woman,  born  in  Amer 
ica,  to  have  written  a  play,  "The  Sister"  (1769).  The  author 
moved  to  London  when  she  was  fifteen,  and  there  it  was  her 

1  Mrs.  Warren  was  born  at  Barnstable,  Mass.,  September  25,  1728,  and  died  at 
Plymouth,  Mass.,  October  19,  1814. 


212  Representative  Plays 

piece  was  produced,  with  an  epilogue  by  Oliver  Goldsmith.  She 
is  referred  to  in  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson. 

Of  Susanna  Rowson,  whose  Memoir  has  been  issued  by  Rev. 
Elias  Nason,  we  know  that,  as  a  singer  and  actress,  she  created 
sufficient  reputation  in  London  to  attract  the  attention  of  Wig- 
nell,  the  comedian.  (Clapp.  Boston  Stage.  1853,  p.  41.) 

With  her  husband,  she  came  to  this  country  in  1793,  and, 
apart  from  her  professional  duties  on  the  stage,  wrote  a  farce, 
"Volunteers"  (1795),  dealing  with  the  Whiskey  Insurrection  in 
Pennsylvania,  "The  Female  Patriot"  (1794),  "Slaves  in  Algiers; 
or,  A  Struggle  for  Freedom"  (1794),  and  "Americans  in  Eng 
land"  (1796).  All  of  these  were  produced.  Her  literary  attain 
ments  were  wide,  her  most  popular  novel  being  "Charlotte 
Temple,  a  Tale  of  Truth"  (1790).  She  likewise  compiled  many 
educational  works.  (See  Wegelin.) 

The  picture  conjured  up  in  our  mind  of  Mrs.  Warren  is 
farthest  away  from  satire.  To  judge  by  the  costume  she  wore 
when  she  sat  to  Copley  for  her  portrait,  she  must  have  been 
graced  with  all  the  feminine  wiles  of  the  period.  Behold  Mrs. 
Mercy  Warren,  satirist,  as  the  records  describe  her: 

Her  head-dress  is  of  white  lace,  trimmed  with  white  satin  ribbons. 
Her  robe  is  of  dark-green  satin,  with  a  pompadour  waist,  trimmed 
with  point  lace.  There  is  a  full  plait  at  the  back,  hanging  from  the 
shoulders,  and  her  sleeves  are  also  of  point  lace.  White  illusion, 
trimmed  with  point  lace,  and  fastened  with  a  white  satin  bow,  covers 
her  neck.  The  front  of  the  skirt  and  of  the  sleeves  are  elaborately 
trimmed  with  puffings  of  satin. 

But  however  agreeable  this  picture  may  be,  Mrs.  Warren,  on 
reading  Burgoyne's  farce,  immediately  sharpened  her  pen,  and 
replied  by  writing  a  counter-farce,  which  she  called  "The  Block 
heads;  or,  the  Affrighted  Officers."  l  It  was  in  the  prologue  to 
this  play  that  the  poet-dramatist  wrote: 

Your  pardon  first  I  crave  for  this  intrusion. 
The  topic's  such  it  looks  like  a  delusion; 
And  next  your  candour,  for  I  swear  and  vow, 
Such  an  attempt  I  never  made  till  now. 
But  constant  laughing  at  the  Desp'rate  fate, 
The  bastard  sons  of  Mars  endur'd  of  late, 
Induc'd  me  thus  to  minute  down  the  notion, 

1  The/Blockheads:/or,  the/Affrighted  Officers.  /A/Farce.  /Boston:/ Printed  in 
Queen-Street./M.DCC.LXXVI./ 


The  Group  213 

Which  put  my  risibles  in  such  commotion. 
By  yankees  frighted  too!  oh,  dire  to  say! 
Why  yankees  sure  at  red-coats  faint  away! 
Oh,  yes — They  thought  so  too — for  lack-a-day, 
Their  gen'ral  turned  the  blockade  to  a  play: 
Poor  vain  poltroons — with  justice  we'll  retort, 
And  call  them  blockheads  for  their  idle  sport. 

Unfortunately,  we  cannot  test  the  comparative  value  of  satire 
as  used  by  Burgoyne  and  Mrs.  Warren,  because  the  Burgoyne 
play  is  not  in  existence.  But,  undoubtedly,  our  Revolutionary 
enthusiast  knew  how  to  wield  her  pen  in  anger,  and  she  reflects 
all  of  the  bitter  spirit  of  the  time.  Not  only  is  this  apparent  in 
"The  Blockheads,"  but  likewise  in  "The  Group,"  a  piece  which  • — 
holds  up  to  ridicule  a  number  of  people  well  known  to  the  Boston 
of  that  day. 

Mrs.  Warren  was  the  writer  of  many  plays,  as  well  as  being        / 
noted  for  her  "History  of  the  American  Revolution"   (1805), 
and  for  her  slim  volume  of  poems  (1790),  which  follow  the  con 
ventional  sentiments  of  the  conventionally  sentimental  English 
poetry  of  that  time. 

In  "The  Group"  we  obtain  her  interesting  impressions,  in 
dramatic  form,  of  North  and  Gage  and,  from  the  standpoint  of 
the  library,  we  regard  with  reverence  the  little  copy  of  the  play 
printed  on  the  day  before  the  battle  of  Lexington — a  slim  bro 
chure,  aimed  effectively  at  Tory  politicians.1 

In  fact,  mention  the  name  Tory  to  Mrs.  Warren,  and  her  wit 
was  ever  ready  to  sharpen  its  shafts  against  British  life  in 
America.  That  is  probably  why  so  many  believe  she  wrote 
"TEe" Motley  Assembly,"  a  farce,  though  some  there  be  who 
claim  that  its  authorship  belongs  to  J.  M.  Sewall.  Dr.  F.  W. 
Atkinson  asserts  that  this  was  the  first  American  play  to  have 
in  it  only  American  characters.2 

The  satirical  farce  was  a  popular  dramatic  form  of  the  time. 
Mrs.  Warren  was  particularly  effective  in  wielding  such  a 
polemic  note,  for  instance,  when  she  deals  with  the  Boston 
Massacre  in  her  Tragedy,  "The  Adulateur"  (Boston:  Printed 

1On  the  title-page  of  the  Boston  edition  there  appears  the  following  proem: 
"As  the  great  business  of  the  polite  world  is  the  eager  pursuit  of  amusement,  and 
as  the  Public  diversions  of  the  season  have  been  interrupted  by  the  hostile  parade 
in  the  capital;  the  exhibition  of  a  new  farce  may  not  be  unentertaining." 

2  The  /Motley  /Assembly,  /A  /Farce.  /Published  /For  the  /Entertainment  /of  the  / 
Curious. /Boston: /Printed  and  Sold  by  Nathaniel  Coverly,  in /Newbury-Street,  / 
M.DCC.LXXIX./ 


214  Representative  Plays 

and  sold  at  the  New  Printing-Office, /Near  Concert-Hall./ 
M,DCC,LXXIII./).  On  the  King's  side,  however,  the  writers 
were  just  as  effective.  Such  an  example  is  seen  in  "The  Battle 
of  Brooklyn,  A  farce  of  Two  Acts:  as  it  was  performed  at 
Long-Island,  on  Tuesday,  the  27th  of  August,  1776,  By  the 
Representatives  of  the  Tyrants  of  America,  Assembled  at 
Philadelphia"  (Edinburgh:  Printed  in  the  Year  M.DCC. 
LXXVIL),  in  which  the  British  ridicule  all  that  is  Continental, 
even  Washington.  This  farce  was  reprinted  in  Brooklyn,  1873. 

Jonathan  Mitchell  Sewall's  (1748-1808)  "A  Cure  for  the 
Spleen;  or,  Amusement  for  a  Winter's  Evening"  (1775)  was 
another  Tory  protest,  which  carried  the  following  pretentious 
subtitle:  "Being  the  substance  of  a  conversation  on  the  Times, 
over  a  friendly  tankard  and  pipe,  between  Sharp,  a  country 
Parson;  Bumper,  a  country  Justice;  Fillpot,  an  inn-keeper; 
Graveairs,  a  Deacon;  Trim,  a  Barber;  Brim,  a  Quaker;  Puff, 
a  late  Representative.  Taken  in  short-hand  by  Roger  de 
Coverly." 

Mrs.  Warren  was  the  intimate  friend  of  many  interesting 
people.  It  concerns  us,  however,  that  her  most  significant  cor 
respondence  of  a  literary  nature  was  carried  on  with  John  Adams, 
afterwards  President  of  the  United  States.  This  friendship 
remained  unbroken  until  such  time  as  Mrs.  Warren  found  it 
necessary  to  picture  Adams  in  her  History  of  the  Revolution; 
when  he  objected  to  the  portraiture. 

The  student  of  history  is  beholden  to  Mr.  Adams  for  many 
of  those  intimate  little  sketches  of  Revolutionary  and  early 
national  life  in  America,  without  which  our  impressions  would 
be  much  the  poorer.  His  admiration  for  Mrs.  Warren  was  great, 
and  even  in  his  correspondence  with  her  husband,  James  Warren, 
he  never  allowed  an  opportunity  to  slip  for  alluding  to  her  work 
as  a  literary  force  in  the  life  of  the  time.  I  note,  for  example,  a 
letter  he  wrote  on  December  22,  1773,  suggesting  a  theme  which 
would  "become"  Mrs.  Warren's  pen,  "which  has  no  equal  that 
I  know  of  in  this  country." 

In  1775,  after  "The  Group"  was  written,  and,  according  to 
custom,  submitted  by  Warren  to  John  Adams  for  criticism  and 
approval,  we  find  him  praising  Mrs.  Warren,  and  quoting  from 
her  play.  So  poignantly  incisive  was  Mrs.  Warren's  satire  that 
many  people  would  not  credit  her  with  the  pieces  she  actually 
wrote,  and  there  were  those  who  thought  it  incredible  that  a 


The  Group  215 

woman  should  use  satire  so  openly  and  so  flagrantly  as  she. 
The  consequence  is,  many  of  her  contemporaries  attributed  the 
writing  of  "The  Group"  to  masculine  hands,  and  this  attitude 
drew  from  Mrs.  Warren  the  following  letter  written  to  Mr. 
Adams: 

My  next  question,  sir,  you  may  deem  impertinent.  Do  you  re 
member  who  was  the  author  of  a  little  pamphlet  entitled,  The  Group? 
To  your  hand  it  was  committed  by  the  \vriter.  You  brought  it  for 
ward  to  the  public  eye.  I  will  therefore  give  you  my  reason  for 
naming  it  now.  A  friend  of  mine,  who  lately  visited  the  Athenaeum 
[a  Boston  Library],  saw  it  among  a  bundle  of  pamphlets,  with  a 
high  encomium  of  the  author,  who,  he  asserted,  was  Mr.  Samuel 
Barrett.  You  can,  if  you  please,  give  a  written  testimony  contra 
dictory  of  the  false  assertion. 

This  letter  was -written  long  after  the  Revolution,  when  she 
was  not  loath  to  let  it  be  known  that  she  was  the  creator  of  this 
little  play,  and  is  clearly  indicative  of  the  general  attitude  the 
public  had  toward  Mrs.  Warren  as  an  author.  Her  appeal  in 
stantly  called  forth  a  courteous  rejoinder  from  Mr.  Adams, 
who  wrote: 

What  brain  could  ever  have  conceived  or  suspected  Samuel  Bar 
rett,  Esquire,  to  have  been  the  author  of  "The  Group"?  The  bishop 
has  neither  the  natural  genius  nor  the  acquired  talents,  the  knowledge 
of  characters,  nor  the  political  principles,  sentiments,  or  feelings,  that 
could  have  dictated  that  pungent  drama.  His  worthy  brother,  the 
Major,  might  have  been  as  rationally  suspected. 

I  could  take  my  Bible  oath  to  two  propositions,  1st.  That  Bishop 
Barrett,  in  my  opinion,  was  one  of  the  last  literary  characters  in  the 
world  who  ought  to  have  been  suspected  to  have  written  "The 
Group."  2d.  That  there  was  but  one  person  in  the  world,  male  or 
female,  who  could  at  that  time,  in  my  opinion,  have  written  it; 
and  that  person  was  Madam  Mercy  Warren,  the  historical,  philo 
sophical,  poetical,  and  satirical  consort  of  the  then  Colonel,  since 
General,  James  Warren  of  Plymouth,  sister  of  the  great,  but  for 
gotten,  James  Otis. 

According  to  Adams,  he  immediately  went  to  the  Boston 
Athenaeum,  where  his  nephew,  W.  S.  Shaw,  was  Librarian.  He 
drew  from  the  shelves  a  copy  of  "The  Group",  which  had  been 
bought  from  the  collection  of  Governor  Adams  of  Massachusetts, 
and  forthwith,  on  looking  it  over,  wrote  down  the  original 


2i6  Representative  Plays 

names  of  the  people  satirized  therein.1  This  copy  is  still  a  valu 
able  possession  of  the  library. 

While  Mrs.  Warren  was  writing  "The  Group,"  she  sent  it 
piecemeal  to  her  husband,  who  was  on  the  field  of  battle.  He, 
being  proud  of  the  literary  attainments  of  his  wife,  sent  it 
around  to  his  friends,  under  seal  of  secrecy.  And  his  appeal  to 
these  friends  was  very  significant  of  the  pride  he  felt  in  the  manu 
script.  Here  is  what  he  wrote  to  Adams,  on  January  15,  1775: 

Inclosed  are  for  your  amusement  two  Acts  of  a  dramatic  perform 
ance  composed  at  my  particular  desire.  They  go  to  you  as  they 
came  out  of  the  hand  of  the  Copier,  without  pointing  or  marking. 
If  you  think  it  worth  while  to  make  any  other  use  of  them  than  a 
reading,  you  will  prepare  them  in  that  way  &  give  them  such 
other  Corrections  &  Amendments  as  your  good  Judgment  shall 
suggest. 

It  gradually  became  known  among  Warren's  friends  who  the 
real  writer  of  the  satire  was,  much  to  the  consternation  of  Mrs. 
Mercy  Warren.  She  was  modest  to  the  extreme,  usually  being 
thrust  into  writing  on  particular  subjects  by  the  enthusiasm  of 
her  friends.  For  example,  she  wrote  a  poem  on  the  Boston 
Tea  Party,  and,  in  sending  it  to  her  husband,  she  confessed  that 
it  was  a  task 

done  in  consequence  of  the  request  of  a  much  respected  friend.  It 
was  wrote  off  with  little  attention.  .  .  I  do  not  think  it  has  suf 
ficient  merit  for  the  public  eye. 

By  the  same  post,  she  sent  him  another  scene  from  "The 
Group." 

Whatever  you  do  with  either  of  them  [meaning  the  manuscripts], 
you  will  doubtless  be  careful  that  the  author  is  not  exposed,  and  hope 
your  particular  friends  will  be  convinced  of  the  propriety  of  not 
naming  her  at  present. 

Mrs.  Warren  was  the  author  of  several  other  plays,  among 
them  "The  Adulateur"  and  "The  Retreat,"  which  preceded 

1  Mrs.  Warren's  biographer,  Alice  Brown,  quotes  the  list,  as  follows,  the  persons 
satirized  being  in  parentheses:  Lord  Chief  Justice  Hazlerod  (Oliver);  Judge 
Meagre  (E.  Hutchinson);  Brigadier  Hateall  (Ruggles);  Hum  Humbug,  Esq., 
(Jno.  Erving);  Sir  Sparrow  Spendall  (Sir  Wm.  Pepperell);  Hector  Mushroom 
(Col.  Murray);  Beau  Trumps  (Jno.  Vassall);  Dick,  the  Publican  (Lechmere); 
Monsieur  de  Frangois  (N.  R.  Thomas);  Crusty  Crowbar,  Esq.  (J.  Boutineau); 
Dupe, — Secretary  of  State  (T.  Flucker);  Scriblerius  Fribble  (Leonard);  Commo 
dore  Bateau  (Loring).  The  significance  of  these  names  will  be  apparent  to  the 
student  of  local  Colonial  history. 


The  Group  217 

"The  Group"  in  date  of  composition,  and  "The  Sack  of  Rome." 
The  latter  was  contained  in  a  volume  of  poems  issued  in  1790, 
in  which  "The  Ladies  of  Castile"  was  dedicated  to  President 
Washington,  who  wrote  the  author  a  courteous  note  in  acknowl 
edgment. 

In  the  preface  to  this  volume,  Mrs.  Warren  gives  her  impres 
sions  of  the  stage,  which  are  excellent  measure  of  the  regard 
Americans  of  this  period  had  for  the  moral  influence  of  the  play 
house.  Thus,  she  writes: 

Theatrical  amusements  may,  sometimes,  have  been  prostituted 
to  the  purposes  of  vice;  yet,  in  an  age  of  taste  and  refinement,  les 
sons  of  morality,  and  the  consequences  of  deviation,  may,  perhaps, 
be  as  successfully  enforced  from  the  stage,  as  by  modes  of  instruc 
tion,  less  censured  by  the  severe;  while,  at  the  same  time,  the  exhibi 
tion  of  great  historical  events,  opens  a  field  of  contemplation  to  the 
reflecting  and  philosophic  mind. 

But  Mrs.  Warren  was  not  entirely  given  over  to  the  serious 
occupations  of  literary  work.  We  find  her  on  intimate  terms 
with  Mrs.  Adams,  the  two  of  them  in  their  daily  association 
calling  each  other  Portia  and  Marcia. 

Who  actually  played  in  "The  Group"  when  it  was  given  a 
performance  is  not  recorded.  We  know,  however,  from  records, 
that  it  was  given  for  the  delectation  of  the  audiences  assembled 
"nigh  head  quarters,  at  Amboyne."  This  evidence  is  on  the 
strength  of  Mrs.  Warren's  own  statement.  Sanction  for  the 
statement  appears  on  the  title-pages  of  the  New  York,  John 
Anderson,  issue  of  I775,1  and  the  Jamaica- Philadelphia,  James 
Humphreys,  Jr.,  edition  of  the  same  year. 

I  have  selected  this  play,  "The  Group,"  as  being  an  excellent 
example  of  the  partisan  writing  done  at  the  time  of  our  Ameri 
can  Revolution,  and  no  one  can  afford  to  overlook  it,  although 
its  actable  qualities,  according  to  our  present-day  judgment, 
are  doubtful. 

1  The  /Group,/  A  /  Farce:  /  As  lately  Acted,  and  to  be  Re-acted,  to  the  Wonder/ 
of  all  superior  Intelligences;  /Nigh  Head  Quarters,  at/  Amboyne.  /In  Two  Acts./ 
New- York:  /  Printed  by  John  Anderson,/  at  Beekman's-Slip./  [The  Boston  edition 
was  printed  and  sold  by  Edes  and  Gill,  in  Queen-Street.  1775-1 


THE 


GROUP, 


FARCE: 

As  lately  A&ed,  and  to  be  Re-a£ke<l,  to  the  Wonder 
of  all  fuperior  Intelligences } 

NIGH      HEAP      QUARTERS,       AT 

A     M     B     O     Y     N     E. 
IN     TWO      ACTS. 

JAMAICA,  pmMTiD; 

P  H  I  L  A  D  E  L  P  H  I  A,  RE-PRINTED; 
BY  JAMES  HUMPHREYS,  junior,  in  Front-ftreet. 

M,DC  C,iXXV, 

FAC-SIMILE  TITLE-PAGE  OF  THE  FIRST  EDITION 


The  AUTHOR  has  thought  proper  to  borrow  the  following 
spirited  lines  from  a  late  celebrated  Poet,  and  offer  to  the  public, 
by  way  of  PROLOGUE,  which  cannot  fail  of  pleasing  at  this  crisis. 


PROLOGUE 

WHAT  !  arm'd  for  virtue,  and  not  point  the  pen, 
Brand  the  bold  front  of  shameless  guilty  men, 
Dash  the  proud  gamester  from  his  gilded  car, 
Bare  the  mean  heart  which  lurks  beneath  a  star, 
*     *     * 

Shall  I  not  strip  the  gilding  off  a  knave, 
Unplaced,  unpension'd,  no  man's  heir,  or  slave? 
I  will,  or  perish  in  the  gen'rous  cause; 
Hear  this  and  tremble,  ye  who  'scape  the  laws; 
Yes,  while  I  live,  no  rich  or  noble  knave, 
Shall  walk  the  world  in  credit  to  his  grave; 
To  virtue  only,  and  her  friends,  a  friend, 
The  world  beside  may  murmur,  or  commend. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Lord  Chief  Justice  HAZLEROD, 
Judge  MEAGRE, 
Brigadier  HATEALL, 
HUM  HUMBUG,  Esquire, 
Sir  SPARROW  SPENDALL, 
HECTOR  MUSHROOM, — Col. 
BEAU  TRUMPS, 
DICK,  the  Publican, 
SIMPLE  SAPLING,  Esquire, 
Monsieur  de  FRANCOIS, 
CRUSTY  CROWBAR,  Esquire, 
DUPE, — Secretary  of  State, 
SCRIBLERIUS  FRIBBLE, 
Commodore  BATEAU, 
COLLATERALIS, — a  new-made  Judge. 

Attended  by  a  swarm  of  court  sycophants,  hungry  harpies,  and 
unprincipled  danglers,  collected  from  the  neighbouring  vil 
lages,  hovering  over  the  stage  in  the  shape  of  locusts,  led  by 
Massachusettensis  in  the  form  of  a  basilisk;  the  rear  brought 
up  by  Proteus,  bearing  a  torch  in  one  hand,  and  a  powder-flask 
in  the  other.  The  whole  supported  by  a  mighty  army  and 
navy,  from  Blunderland,  for  the  laudable  purpose  of  enslav 
ing  its  best  friends. 


The 
GROUP 

A 

Farce 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  A  little  dark  Parlour  in  Boston: 
GUARDS  standing  at  the  door. 

HAZLEROD,    CRUSTY    CROWBAR,    SIMPLE  SAPLING,    HATEALL, 
and  HECTOR  MUSHROOM. 

SIMPLE. 

I  know  not  what  to  think  of  these  sad  times, 
The  people  arm'd, — and  all  resolv'd  to  die 
Ere  they'll  submit. 

CRUSTY  CROWBAR. 

I  too  am  almost  sick  of  the  parade 
Of  honours  purchas'd  at  the  price  of  peace. 

SIMPLE. 

Fond  as  I  am  of  greatness  and  her  charms, 
Elate  with  prospects  of  my  rising  name, 
Push'd  into  place, — a  place  I  ne'er  expected, 
My  bounding  heart  leapt  in  my  feeble  breast. 
And  ecstasies  entranc'd  my  slender  brain. — 
But  yet,  ere  this  I  hop'd  more  solid  gains, 
As  my  low  purse  demands  a  quick  supply. — 
Poor  Sylvia  weeps, — and  urges  my  return 
To  rural  peace  and  humble  happiness, 
As  my  ambition  beggars  all  her  babes. 


224  Representative  Plays 

CRUSTY. 

When  first  I  listed  in  the  desp'rate  cause, 
And  blindly  swore  obedience  to  his  will, 
So  wise,  so  just,  so  good  I  thought  Rapatio, 
That  if  salvation  rested  on  his  word 
I'd  pin  my  faith,  and  risk  my  hopes  thereon. 

HAZLEROD. 
Any  why  not  now? — What  staggers  thy  belief? 

CRUSTY. 

Himself — his  perfidy  appears — 
It  is  too  plain  he  has  betray'd  his  country; 
And  we're  the  wretched  tools  by  him  mark'd  out 
To  seal  its  ruins — tear  up  the  ancient  forms, 
And  every  vestige  treacherously  destroy, 
Nor  leave  a  trait  of  freedom  in  the  land. 
Nor  did  I  think  hard  fate  wou'd  call  me  up 
From  drudging  o'er  my  acres, 
Treading  the  glade,  and  sweating  at  the  plough, 
To  dangle  at  the  tables  of  the  great; 
At  bowls  and  cards  to  spend  my  frozen  years; 
To  sell  my  friends,  my  country,  and  my  conscience; 
Profane  the  sacred  sabbaths  of  my  God ; 
Scorn'd  by  the  very  men  who  want  my  aid 
To  spread  distress  o'er  this  devoted  people. 

HAZLEROD. 

Pho — what  misgivings — why  these  idle  qualms, 
This  shrinking  backwards  at  the  bugbear  conscience; 
In  early  life  I  heard  the  phantom  nam'd, 
And  the  grave  sages  prate  of  moral  sense 
Presiding  in  the  bosom  of  the  just; 
Or  planting  thongs  about  the  guilty  heart. 
Bound  by  these  shackles,  long  my  lab'ring  mind, 
Obscurely  trod  the  lower  walks  of  life, 
In  hopes  by  honesty  my  bread  to  gain; 
But  neither  commerce,  or  my  conjuring  rods, 
Nor  yet  mechanics,  or  new  fangled  drills, 
Or  all  the  iron-monger's  curious  arts, 
Gave  me  a  competence  of  shining  ore, 


The  Group  225 

Or  gratify'd  my  itching  palm  for  more; 

Till  I  dismiss'd  the  bold  intruding  guest, 

And  banish'd  conscience  from  my  wounded  breast. 

CRUSTY. 

Happy  expedient! — Could  I  gain  the  art, 
Then  balmy  sleep  might  sooth  my  waking  lids, 
And  rest  once  more  refresh  my  weary  soul. 

HAZLEROD. 

Resolv'd  more  rapidly  to  gain  my  point, 
I  mounted  high  in  justice's  sacred  seat, 
With  flowing  robes,  and  head  equip'd  without, 
A  heart  unfeeling  and  a  stubborn  soul, 
As  qualify'd  as  e'er  a  Jefferies  was; 
Save  in  the  knotty  rudiments  of  law, 
The  smallest  requisite  for  modern  times, 
When  wisdom,  law,  and  justice  are  supply'd 
By  swords,  dragoons,  and  ministerial  nods, 
Sanctions  most  sacred  in  the  Pander's  creed, 
I  sold  my  country  for  a  splendid  bribe. 

Now  let  her  sink and  all  the  dire  alarms 

Of  war,  confusion,  pestilence,  and  blood, 
And  tenfold  mis'ry  be  her  future  doom- 
Let  civil  discord  lift  her  sword  on  high, 
Nay,  sheath  its  hilt  e'en  in  my  brother's  blood; 
It  ne'er  shall  move  the  purpose  of  my  soul; 
Tho'  once  I  trembled  at  a  thought  so  bold ; 
By  Philalethes's  arguments,  convinc'd, 
We  may  live  Demons,  as  we  die  like  brutes, 
I  give  my  tears,  and  conscience  to  the  winds. 

HATEALL. 

Curse  on  their  coward  fears,  and  dastard  souls, 
Their  soft  compunctions  and  relented  qualms, 
Compassion  ne'er  shall  seize  my  steadfast  breast 
Though  blood  and  carnage  spread  thro'  all  the  land; 
Till  streaming  purple  tinge  the  verdant  turf, 
Till  ev'ry  street  shall  float  with  human  gore, 
I  Nero-like,  the  capital  in  flames, 
Could  laugh  to  see  her  glotted  sons  expire, 
Tho'  much  too  rough  my  soul  to  touch  the  lyre. 


226  Representative  Plays 

SIMPLE. 

I  fear  the  brave,  the  injur'd  multitude, 
Repeated  wrongs,  arouse  them  to  resent, 
And  every  patriot  like  old  Brutus  stands, 
The  shining  steel  half  drawn — its  glitt'ring  point 
Scarce  hid  beneath  the  scabbard's  friendly  cell, 
Resolv'd  to  die,  or  see  their  country  free. 

HATE  ALL. 

Then  let  them  die — The  dogs  we  will  keep  down — 

While  N 's  my  friend,  and  G approves  the  deed, 

Tho'  hell  and  all  its  hell-hounds  should  unite, 
I'll  not  recede  to  save  from  swift  perdition 
My  wife,  my  country,  family,  or  friends. 

G- 's  mandamus  I  more  highly  prize 

Than  all  the  mandates  of  th'  etherial  king. 

HECTOR  MUSHROOM. 

Will  our  abettors  in  the  distant  towns 
Support  us  long  against  the  common  cause, 
When  they  shall  see  from  Hampshire's  northern  bounds 
Thro'  the  wide  western  plains  to  southern  shores 
The  whole  united  continent  in  arms? 

HATE  ALL. 

They  shall — as  sure  as  oaths  or  bond  can  bind ; 
I've  boldly  sent  my  new-born  brat  abroad, 
Th'  association  of  my  morbid  brain, 
To  which  each  minion  must  affix  his  name, 
As  all  our  hope  depends  on  brutal  force, 
On  quick  destruction,  misery,  and  death; 
Soon  may  we  see  dark  ruin  stalk  around, 
With  murder,  rapine,  and  inflicted  pains; 
Estates  confiscate,  slav'ry,  and  despair, 
Wrecks,  halters,  axes,  gibbeting  and  chains, 

All  the  dread  ills  that  wait  on  civil  war; 

How  I  could  glut  my  vengeful  eyes  to  see 
The  weeping  maid  thrown  helpless  on  the  world, 
Her  sire  cut  off. — Her  orphan  brothers  stand, 
While  the  big  tear  rolls  down  the  manly  cheek. 


The  Group  227 

Robb'd  of  maternal  care  by  grief's  keen  shaft, 
The  sorrowing  mother  mourns  her  starving  babes, 
Her  murder'd  lord  torn  guiltless  from  her  side, 
And  flees  for  shelter  to  the  pitying  grave 
To  screen  at  once  from  slavery  and  pain. 

HAZLEROD. 

But  more  complete  I  view  this  scene  of  woe, 
By  the  incursions  of  a  savage  foe, 
Of  which  I  warn'd  them,  if  they  dare  refuse 
The  badge  of  slaves,  and  bold  resistance  use. 
Now  let  them  suffer — I'll  no  pity  feel. 

HATEALL. 

Nor  I ! But  had  I  power,  as  I  have  the  will, 

I'd  send  them  murm'ring  to  the  shades  of  hell. 

End  of  the  First  Act. 

ACT  II. 

The  scene  changes  to  a  large  dining  room.     The  table  furnished 

•with  bowls,  bottles,  glasses,  and  cards. The  Group  appear 

sitting  round  in  a  restless  attitude.  In  one  corner  of  the  room  is 
discovered  a  small  cabinet  of  books,  for  the  use  of  the  studious  and 
contemplative;  containing,  Hobbs's  Leviathan,  Sipthorp's  Ser 
mons,  Hutchinsori1  s  History,  Fable  of  the  Bees,  Philalethes  on 
Philanthropy,  with  an  appendix  by  Massachusettensis,  Hoyl 
on  Whist,  Lives  of  the  Stuarts,  Statutes  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  and 
William  the  Conqueror,  Wedderburne1  s  speeches,  and  acts  of 
Parliament,  for  1774. 

SCENE  I. 

HATEALL,    HAZLEROD,    MONSIEUR,    BEAU    TRUMPS,    SIMPLE, 
HUMBUG,  SIR  SPARROW,  &c.,  &c. 

SCRIBLERIUS. 

Thy"  toast,  Monsieur, 

Pray,  why  that  solemn  phiz: — 

Art  thou,  too,  balancing  'twixt  right  and  wrong? 


228  Representative  Plays 

Hast  thou  a  thought  so  mean  as  to  give  up 

Thy  present  good,  for  promise  in  reversion? 

'Tis  true  hereafter  has  some  feeble  terrors, 

But  ere  our  grizzly  heads  are  wrapt  in  clay 

We  may  compound,  and  make  our  peace  with  Heav'n. 

MONSIEUR. 

Could  I  give  up  the  dread  of  retribution, 
The  awful  reck'ning  of  some  future  day, 
Like  surly  Hateall  I  might  curse  mankind, 
And  dare  the  threat'ned  vengeance  of  the  skies. 

Or  like  yon  apostate 

[Pointing  to  HAZLEROD,  retired  to  a  corner 
to  read  Massachusettensis. 

Feel  but  slight  remorse 
To  sell  my  country  for  a  grasp  of  gold. 
But  the  impressions  of  my  early  youth, 
Infix'd  by  precepts  of  my  pious  sire, 
Are  stings  and  scorpions  in  my  goaded  breast; 
Oft  have  I  hung  upon  my  parent's  knee 
And  heard  him  tell  of  his  escape  from  France; 
He  left  the  land  of  slaves,  and  wooden  shoes; 
From  place  to  place  he  sought  a  safe  retreat, 
Till  fair  Bostonia  stretch'd  her  friendly  arm 
And  gave  the  refugee  both  bread  and  peace: 
(Shall  I  ungrateful  'rase  the  sacred  bonds, 
And  help  to  clank  the  tyrant's  iron  chains 
O'er  these  blest  shores — once  the  sure  asylum 
From  all  the  ills  of  arbitrary  sway?) 
With  his  expiring  breath  he  bade  his  sons, 
If  e'er  oppression  reach'd  the  western  world, 
Resist  its  force,  and  break  the  servile  yoke. 

SCRIBLERIUS. 

Well  quit  thy  post: Go  make  thy  flatt'ring  court 

To  Freedom's  Sons  and  tell  thy  baby  fears; 
Shew  the  foot  traces  in  thy  puny  heart, 
Made  by  the  trembling  tongue  and  quiv'ring  lip 
Of  an  old  grandsire's  superstitious  whims. 


The  Group  229 

MONSIEUR. 

No, 1  never  can 

So  great  the  itch  I  feel  for  titl'd  place, 
Some  honorary  post,  some  small  distinction, 
To  save  my  name  from  dark  oblivion's  jaws, 
I'll  hazard  all,  but  ne'er  give  up  my  place, 
For  that  I'll  see  Rome's  ancient  rites  restor'd, 
And  flame  and  faggot  blaze  in  ev'ry  street. 

BEAU  TRUMPS. 

That's  right,  Monsieur, 

There's  nought  on  earth  that  has  such  tempting  charms 

As  rank  and  show,  and  pomp,  and  glitt'ring  dress, 

Save  the  dear  counters  at  belov'd  Quadril, 

Viner  unsoil'd,  and  Littleton,  may  sleep, 

And  Coke  lie  mould'ring  on  the  dusty  shelf, 

If  I  by  shuffling  draw  some  lucky  card 

That  wins  the  livres,  or  lucrative  place. 

HUM  HUMBUG. 

When  sly  Rapatio  shew'd  his  friends  the  scroll, 
I  wonder'd  much  to  see  thy  patriot  name 
Among  the  list  of  rebels  to  the  state, 
I  thought  thee  one  of  Rusticus's  sworn  friends. 

BEAU  TRUMPS. 

When  first  I  enter'd  on  the  public  stage 
My  country  groan'd  beneath  base  Brundo's  hand, 
Virtue  look'd  fair  and  beckon'd  to  her  lure, 
Thro'  truth's  bright  mirror  I  beheld  her  charms 
And  wish'd  to  tread  the  patriotic  path 
And  wear  the  laurels  that  adorn  his  fame; 
I  walk'd  a  while  and  tasted  solid  peace 
With  Cassius,  Rusticus,  and  good  Hortensius, 
And  many  more,  whose  names  will  be  rever'd 
When  you,  and  I,  and  all  the  venal  herd, 
Weigh'd  in  Nemesis,  just  impartial  scale, 
Are  mark'd  with  infamy,  till  time  blot  out 
And  in  oblivion  sink  our  hated  names. 
But  'twas  a  poor  unprofitable  path, 


230  Representative  Plays 

Nought  to  be  gain'd,  save  solid  peace  of  mind,1 

No  pensions,  place  or  title  there  I  found; 

I  saw  Rapatio's  arts  had  struck  so  deep 

And  giv'n  his  country  such  a  fatal  wound, 

None  but  his  foes  promotion  could  expect; 

I  trim'd,  and  pimp'd,  and  veer'd,  and  wav'ring  stood, 

But  half  resolv'd  to  shew  myself  a  knave, 

Till  the  Arch  Traitor  prowling  round  for  aid 

Saw  my  suspense  and  bade  me  doubt  no  more; — 

He  gently  bow'd,  and  smiling  took  my  hand, 

And  whispering  softly  in  my  list'ning  ear, 

Shew'd  me  my  name  among  his  chosen  band, 

And  laugh'd  at  virtue  dignifi'd  by  fools, 

Clear'd  all  my  doubts,  and  bade  me  persevere 

In  spite  of  the  restraints,  or  hourly  checks 

Of  wounded  friendship,  and  a  goaded  mind, 

Or  all  the  sacred  ties  of  truth  and  honour. 

COLLATERALIS. 

Come,  'mongst  ourselves  we'll  e'en  speak  out  the  truth. 
Can  you  suppose  there  yet  is  such  a  dupe 
As  still  believes  that  wretch  an  honest  man? 

The  later  strokes  of  his  serpentine  brain 
Outvie  the  arts  of  Machiavel  himself, 
His  Borgian  model  here  is  realiz'd 
And  the  stale  tricks  of  politicians  play'd 

Beneath  a  vizard  fair 

Drawn  from  the  heav'nly  form 

Of  blest  religion  weeping  o'er  the  land 
For  virtue  fall'n,  and  for  freedom  lost. 

BEAU  TRUMPS. 
I  think  with  you 


-unparalleled  his  effront'ry, 


When  by  chican'ry  and  specious  art, 

'Midst  the  distress  in  which  he'd  brought  the  city, 

He  found  a  few  (by  artifice  and  cunning, 

By  much  industry  of  his  wily  friend 

The  false  Philanthrop sly  undermining  tool, 

Who  with  the  Syren's  voice 

Deals  daily  round  the  poison  of  his  tongue) 


The  Group  231 

To  speak  him  fair — and  overlook  his  guilt. 
They  by  reiterated  promise  made 
To  stand  his  friend  at  Britain's  mighty  court, 
And  vindicate  his  native  injur'd  land, 
Lent  him  their  names  to  sanctify  his  deeds. 

But  mark  the  traitor his  high  crimes  gloss'd  o'er 

Conceals  the  tender  feelings  of  the  man, 

The  social  ties  that  bind  the  human  heart; 

He  strikes  a  bargain  with  his  country's  foes, 

And  joins  to  wrap  America  in  flames. 

Yet  with  feign'd  pity,  and  Satanic  grin, 

As  if  more  deep  to  fix  the  keen  insult, 

Or  make  his  life  a  farce  still  more  complete, 

He  sends  a  groan  across  the  broad  Atlantic, 

And  with  a  phiz  of  Crocodilian  stamp, 

Can  weep,  and  wreathe,  still  hoping  to  deceive, 

He  cries  the  gath'ring  clouds  hang  thick  about  her, 

But  laughs  within then  sobs 

Alas!  my  country? 

HUM  HUMBUG. 

Why  so  severe,  or  why  exclaim  at  all, 
Against  the  man  who  made  thee  what  thou  art? 

BEAU  TRUMPS. 

I  know  his  guilt, — I  ever  knew  the  man, 
Thy  father  knew  him  e'er  we  trod  the  stage; 
I  only  speak  to  such  as  know  him  well ; 
Abroad  I  tell  the  world  he  is  a  saint, 
But  as  for  int'rest  I  betray'd  my  own 
With  the  same  views,  I  rank'd  among  his  friends: 
But  my  ambition  sighs  for  something  more. 
What  merits  has  Sir  Sparrow  of  his  own, 
And  yet  a  feather  graces  the  fool's  cap: 
Which  did  he  wear  for  what  himself  achiev'd, 

'Twould  stamp  some  honour  on  his  latest  heir 

But  I'll  suspend  my  murm'ring  care  awhile; 

Come,  t'  other  glass and  try  our  luck  at  Loo, 

And  if  before  the  dawn  your  gold  I  win, 
Or  e'er  bright  Phcebus  does  his  course  begin, 
The  eastern  breeze  from  Britain's  hostile  shore 


232  Representative  Plays 

Should  waft  her  lofty  floating  towers  o'er, 
Whose  waving  pendants  sweep  the  wat'ry  main, 
Dip  their  proud  beaks  and  dance  towards  the  plain, 
The  destin'd  plains  of  slaughter  and  distress, 
Laden  with  troops  from  Hanover  and  Hess, 
It  would  invigorate  my  sinking  soul, 
For  then  the  continent  we  might  control ; 
Not  all  the  millions  that  she  vainly  boasts 

Can  cope  with  Veteran  Barbarian  hosts; 

But  the  brave  sons  of  Albion's  warlike  race, 
Their  arms,  and  honours,  never  can  disgrace, 
Or  draw  their  swords  in  such  a  hated  cause, 

In  blood  to  seal  a  N-; 's  oppressive  laws, 

They'll  spurn  the  service; Britons  must  recoil, 

And  shew  themselves  the  natives  of  an  isle 
Who  sought  for  freedom,  in  the  worst  of  times 
Produc'd  her  Hampdens,  Fairfaxes,  and  Pyms". 

But  if  by  carnage  we  should  win  the  game, 
Perhaps  by  my  abilities  and  fame : 
I  might  attain  a  splendid  glitt'ring  car, 
And  mount  aloft,  and  sail  in  liquid  air. 
Like  Phaeton,  I'd  then  out-strip  the  wind, 
And  leave  my  low  competitors  behind. 

Finis. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BUNKERS-HILL 

By 

HUGH   HENRY  BRACKENRIDGE 


HUGH  HENRY  BRACKENRIDGE 


HUGH  HENRY  BRACKENRIDGE 

(1748-1816) 

The  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill  was  an  even.t  which  stirred  what 
ever  dramatic  activity  there  was  in  America  at  the  time  of  the 
Revolution.  Therefore,  a  play  written  on  the  subject  should  not 
be  omitted  from  a  collection  supposed  to  be  representative  of 
the  different  periods  in  American  history  and  in  American 
thought.  The  reader  has  an  interesting  comparison  to  make  in 
Hugh  Henry  Brackenridge's  play,  which  the  title-page  declares 
is  "A  dramatic  piece  of  five  acts,  in  heroic  measure,  by  a  gentle 
man  of  Maryland,"  and  a  later  piece  entitled  "Bunker  Hill,  or 
the  Death  of  General  Warren,"  written  by  John  Daly  Burk 
(1776-1808),  who  came  to  America  because  of  certain  political 
disturbances,  and  published  his  drama  with  a  Dedication  to 
Aaron  Burr  (1797),  the  year  it  was  given  in  New  York  for  the 
first  time.1  It  will  be  found  that  the  former  play  is  conceived 
in  a  better  spirit,  and  is  more  significant  because  of  the  fact 
that  it  was  written  so  soon  after  the  actual  event. 

It  is  natural  that  Hugh  Henry  Brackenridge  should  have  been 
inspired  by  the  Revolution,  and  should  have  been  prompted  by 
the  loyal  spirit  of  the  patriots  of  the  time.  For  he  was  the  stuff 
from  which  patriots  are  made,  having,  in  his  early  life,  been 
reared  in  Pennsylvania,  even  though  he  first  saw  the  light  near 
Campbletown,  Scotland,  in  1748.  His  father  (who  moved  to 
America  in  1753)  was  a  poor  farmer,  and  Hugh  received  his 
schooling  under  precarious  conditions,  as  many  boys  of  that 
time  did.  We  are  given  pictures  of  him,  trudging  thirty  miles 
in  all  kinds  of  weather,  in  order  to  borrow  books  and  newspapers, 
and  we  are  told  that,  being  quick  in  the  learning  of  languages, 
he  made  arrangements  with  a  man,  who  knew  mathematics,  to 
trade  accomplishments  in  order  that  he  himself  might  become 
better  skilled  in  the  science  of  calculation. 

1  Burk  wrote  another  play,  "Female  Patriotism;  or,  The  Death  of  Joan  d'Arc," 
given  a  New  York  production  in  1798.  An  interesting  letter  from  Burk  to  J.  Hodg- 
kinson,  who  produced  his  "Bunker  Hill,"  is  to  be  found  in  Dunlap's  "The  American 
Theatre"  (London,  1833,  i,  313).  The  play  has  been  reissued  by  the  Dunlap  Society 
(1891,  no.  15),  and  edited,  with  an  introduction  by  Brander  Matthews. 


236  Representative  Plays 

At  the  age  of  fifteen,  he  was  so  well  equipped  that  he  was 
engaged  to  teach  school  in  Maryland,  at  Gunpowder  Falls,  some 
of  his  pupils  being  so  much  larger  and  older  than  he  that,  at  one 
time,  he  had  to  take  a  brand  from  the  fire,  and  strike  one  of  them, 
in  order  to  gain  ascendency  over  him. 

At  eighteen,  pocketing  whatever  money  he  had  saved,  he  went 
to  President  Witherspoon,  of  the  College  of  New  Jersey,  arrang 
ing  with  that  divine  to  teach  classes  in  order  that  he  might  afford 
to  remain  and  study.  While  there,  among  his  classmates  may 
be  counted  James  Madison,  future  president  of  the  United  States, 
Philip  Freneau,  the  poet,  and  others  of  later  note.  Aaron  Burr 
was  a  Junior  at  the  time  of  Brackenridge's  graduation,  as  was 
William  Bradford.  Though  he  was  on  intimate  terms  with 
Madison,  he  was  much  more  the  friend  of  Freneau,  the  two 
writing  together  "The  Rising  Glory  of  America."  Should  one 
take  the  complete  piece,  which  was  read  by  Brackenridge  at 
Commencement,  and  mark  therein  that  part  of  the  poem  com 
posed  by  Freneau,  and  included  later  in  Freneau's  published 
works,  one  might  very  readily  understand  that  Brackenridge 
was  less  the  poet,  even  though  in  some  ways  he  may  have  been 
more  versatile  as  a  writer. 

This  piece,  "The  Rising  Glory  of  America,"1  is  representative 
of  a  type  of  drama  which  was  fostered  and  encouraged  by  the 
colleges  of  the  time.  We  find  Francis  Hopkinson,  in  the  College 
of  Philadelphia,  writing  various  dialogues,  like  his  "Exercise: 
Containing  a  Dialogue  [by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Smith]  and  Ode,  sacred 
to  the  memory  of  his  late  gracious  Majesty  George  II.  Per 
formed  at  the  public  commencement  in  the  College  of  Phila 
delphia,  May,  1761."  Yet  Hopkinson  was  one  of  the  Signers 
of  the  Declaration  of  Independence! 

What  says  Abbe  Robin,  viewing  Harvard  in  1781: 

Their  pupils  often  act  tragedies,  the  subject  of  which  is  generally 
taken  from  their  national  events,  such  as  the  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill, 
the  burning  of  Charlestown,  the  death  of  General  Montgomery,  the 
capture  of  Burgoyne,  the  treason  of  Arnold,  and  the  Fall  of  British 
Tyranny.  You  will  easily  conclude  that  in  such  a  new  nation  as 
this,  these  pieces  must  fall  infinitely  short  of  that  perfection  to 
which  our  European  literary  productions  of  this  kind  are  wrought 
up;  but,  still,  they  have  a  greater  effect  upon  the  mind  than  the 
best  of  ours  would  have  among  them,  because  those  manners  and 

1  Philadelphia :/Printed  by  Joseph  Crukshank,  for  R.  Aitken./Bookseller,  Oppo 
site  the  London-Coffee-/House,  in  Front-Street./M.DCC.LXXII./ 


The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill  237 

customs  are  delineated,  which  are  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  the 
events  are  such  as  interest  them  above  all  others.  The  drama  is 
here  reduced  to  its  true  and  Ancient  origin. 

Nathaniel  Evans  also  wrote  dialogues,  performed  at  the  public 
Commencements  in  Philadelphia,  like  the  one  on  May  17,  1763. 
We  have  already  noted  that  "The  Prince  of  Parthia"  was  written 
as  a  college  play.  "The  Military  Glory  of  Great  Britain"  was 
also  prepared  as  an  entertainment  by  the  graduates  of  the  College 
of  New  Jersey,  held  in  Nassau-Hall,  September  29,  1762,  with 
the  authorship  unknown.  It  was  a  type  of  play  which  tempted 
many  men,  who  later  tried  their  hand  at  more  important  dra 
matic  work. 

Another  interesting  title  of  the  time  ran  as  follows: 

An/Exercise,/containing/a  Dialogue  and  Ode/On  the  Accession  of 
His  present  gracious  Majesty./George  1 1 1. /Performed  at  the  public 
Commencement  in  the  College  of/Philadelphia,  May  i8th,  1762. / 
Philadelphia :/Printed  by  W.  Dunlap,  in  Market-Street,  M,DCC, 
LXII./ 

In  order  to  understand  the  spirit  which  prompted  both  Brack- 
enridge  and  Freneau,  one  needs  must  turn  to  an  account  of  the 
latter's  life,  and  learn  therefrom  certain  facts  concerning  the 
early  college  spirit  of  Brackenridge,  which  was  ignored  by  his 
son  in  the  only  authentic  record  of  his  life  we  have. 

From  Freneau  we  understand,  for  example,  that,  as  early  as 
June  24,  1769,  a  certain  number  of  students  banded  themselves 
into  an  undergraduate  fraternity,  called  the  American  Whig 
Society,  the  chief  members  of  that  association  being  Madison, 
Brackenridge,  Bradford,  and  Freneau  himself.  There  is  a  manu 
script  book  in  the  possession  of  the  Historical  Society  of  Penn 
sylvania,  originally  owned  by  Bradford,  and  containing  some  of 
their  later  poetical  tirades.  It  is  called  "Satires  against  the 
Whigs,"  and  is  composed  of  ten  pastorals  by  Brackenridge  and 
a  number  of  satires  by  Freneau.  It  is  strange  that  the  intimacy 
between  Brackenridge  and  Freneau  did  not  lead  to  their  rooming 
together  while  at  College,  Brackenridge  giving  way  to  James 
Madison.  But  we  do  know  that  the  two  were  very  intimately 
associated  in  early  literary  work,  and,  in  the  manuscript  book 
just  mentioned,  there  is  contained  the  fragment  of  a  novel 
written  alternately  by  the  two,  and  called  "Father  Bombo's 
Pilgrimage  to  Mecca  in  Arabia." 


238  Representative  Plays 

Then  followed  "The  Rising  Glory  of  America,"  which,  when 
Brackenridge  graduated,  September  25,  1771,  was  announced  on 
the  program  of  events — afternoon  division — as  being  entirely 
by  himself.  This  must  have  been  an  oversight,  inasmuch  as 
Freneau  had  more  than  a  mere  hand  in  the  execution  of  the 
piece,  and  inasmuch  as  we  possess  Brackenridge's  own  confession 
"that  on  his  part  it  was  a  task  of  labour,  while  the  verse  of  his 
associate  flowed  spontaneously." 

The  college  life  of  the  time  was  not  devoted  entirely  to  literary 
creativeness  or  to  political  discussions.  There  is  published  an 
address  by  President  Witherspoon  to  the  inhabitants  of  Jamaica 
(1772),  in  which  he  outlined  the  course  of  study  to  which  the 
students  were  subjected.  It  indicates,  very  excellently,  the 
classical  training  that  Brackenridge,  Freneau,  and  Madison  had 
to  undergo.  In  fact,  we  find,  on  Commencement  Day,  Freneau 
debating  on  "Does  Ancient  Poetry  excel  the  Modern?"  and 
throwing  all  his  energy  in  favour  of  the  affirmative  argument. 
And  Brackenridge,  selected  to  deliver  the  Salutatory,  rendered 
it  in  Latin,  "De  societate  hominum."  (See  Pennsylvania 
Chronicle;  John  Maclean's  "History  of  the  College  of  New 
Jersey,"  i,  312;  Madison's  correspondence  while  a  student; 
also  Philip  Vickers  Fithian's  Journal  and  Letters:  1764-1774. 
Student  at  Princeton  College:  1770-1772.  Tutor  at  Nomini 
Hall  in  Virginia:  1773-1774.  Ed. . .  .by  J.  R.  Williams.  Prince 
ton,  1900.)  The  Princeton  historian  points  to  this  class  of  1771 
as  being  so  patriotic  that  a  unanimous  vote  was  taken  to  appear 
at  graduation  in  nothing  but  things  of  American  manufacture.1 

This  much  we  do  know  regarding  the  early  life  of  Brackenridge : 
that  he  was  always  pressed  for  money,  that  it  was  his  indefatiga- 
bleness  and  thirst  for  knowledge  which  carried  him  through  the 
schools  of  the  time,  and  through  college. 

His  son  even  confesses  that  his  father  was  obliged,  on  one 
occasion,  to  write  an  address  which  one  of  the  students  had  to 
deliver,  and  to  receive  in  payment  therefor  a  new  suit  of  clothes ! 
It  was  after  his  graduation  that  Brackenridge  tutored  in  the 
College  for  a  while,  meantime  taking  up  a  course  in  theology. 
After  this,  he  accepted  a  position  as  teacher  in  a  school  on  the 
eastern  shore  of  Maryland,  because  the  "Academy"  offered  him 
a  most  flattering  salary,  and  he  could  not  reject  it,  however  much 

*The  students  of  Princeton  have  not  revived  the  "Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill," 
but  they  point  still  with  some  pride  to  the  ivy  which  was  planted  by  the  class  of  1771. 


The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill  239 

he  may  have  been  interested  in  his  college  work.  No  sooner  was 
he  established  there  than  he  wrote  to  his  friend,  Freneau,  invi 
ting  him  to  take  the  second  position  in  the  Maryland  Seminary. 
This  position  was  accepted  by  Freneau,  who  wrote  to  James 
Madison  on  November  22,  1772,  mentioning  therein  that 
Brackenridge  was  at  the  head  of  Sommerset  Academy,  to  which 
he  himself  had  come  on  October  i8th  of  that  year,  and  where 
he  was  teaching  the  young  idea  and  pursuing  at  the  same  time 
his  theological  studies. 

As  illustration  of  how  much  Freneau  was  at  heart  in  tune  with 
the  work,  we  note  that  he  says,  "We  have  about  thirty  students 
in  this  Academy  who  prey  upon  me  like  leeches." 

According  to  Brackenridge's  son,  whose  Memoir  of  his  father 
is  published  in  the  1846  edition  of  "Modern  Chivalry,"  there 
must,  however,  have  been  in  this  part  of  Maryland  a  polished 
social  atmosphere,  which  gave  ample  opportunity  for  the  wit, 
the  scholarship,  and  the  conversational  and  social  powers  of 
Brackenridge  to  develop. 

For  the  students  of  Sommerset  Academy,  Brackenridge  wrote 
his  play,  "The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill,"  J  and  though  there  is  no 
record  of  this  piece  having  been  actually  presented,  it  is  generally 
agreed  that  the  Principal  wrote  his  drama  as  an  exercise  for  the 
pupils  to  perform.  It  was  published  anonymously,  the  fashion 
of  the  day  which  has  led  to  many  disputes, — for  example,  as  to 
the  authorship  claims  of  John  Leacock  and  Mrs.  Mercy  Warren. 
Royall  Tyler  was  likewise  diffident  about  letting  his  name  appear 
on  the  title-page  of  "The  Contrast." 

When  published  in  1776,  Brackenridge's  piece  was  dedicated 
to  Richard  Stockton,  and  its  tone  and  temper  are  thoroughly 
indicative  of  the  spirit  that  must  have  dominated  all  his  writings 
while  at  College. 

The  year  1776  marks  Brackenridge's  severance  from  teaching 
work.  He  soon  after  went  to  Philadelphia  with  his  small  fortune 
of  one  thousand  pounds,  and  continued  his  efforts  to  make  a 
livelihood  by  editing  the  United  States  Magazine,  which  afforded 
him  an  opportunity  of  airing  his  patriotic  views,  and  gave  him 
the  added  pleasure  of  inviting  his  associate,  Freneau,  to  become 
one  of  the  leading  contributors.  The  following  year,  even  though 

1  The/Bat  tie/of /Bunkers-Hill. /A  Dramatic  Piece,/of  Five  Acts,/in  Heroic  Measure. 
/By  a  Gentleman  of  Maryland./ — Pulcrumque  mori  succurrit  in  armis./Virgil./ — 
Tis  glorious  to  die  in  Battle. — /Philadelphia :/Printed  and  Sold  by  Robert  Bell,  in 
Third-Street.  /MDCCLXXVI./ 


240  Representative  Plays 

he  had  never  been  ordained  in  the  Church,  Brackenridge,  never 
theless,  a  licensed  divine,  enlisted  as  Chaplain  in  the  Revolu 
tionary  Army,  and  there  are  extant  a  number  of  vigorous  political 
sermons  which  it  was  his  wont  to  deliver  to  the  soldiers — the 
same  fiery  eloquence  seen  in  his  "Eulogium  on  the  Brave  Men 
who  fell  in  the  Contest  with  Great  Britain,"  delivered  in  1778. 

Some  time  elapsed  while  he  travelled  hither  and  thither  with 
a  bible  in  his  saddle-bags,  according  to  description,  and  then 
Brackenridge  took  up  the  study  of  law,  inasmuch  as  his  very 
advanced  views  on  religious  questions  would  not  allow  him  to 
subscribe  to  all  the  tenets  of  his  Presbyterian  faith.  This  drew 
down  upon  him  the  inimical  strictures  of  the  pulpit,  but 
marked  him  as  a  man  of  intellectual  bravery  and  certain  moral 
daring. 

Having  completed  his  law  reading  in  Annapolis,  under  Samuel 
Chase,  afterwards  Supreme  Court  Judge,  he  crossed  the  Alle- 
ghanies,  in  1781,  and  established  himself  in  Pittsburgh,  where 
he  rapidly  grew  in  reputation,  through  his  personal  magnetism 
and  his  undoubted  talents  as  a  lawyer.  He  was  strictly  in 
favour  of  the  Federal  Constitution,  and  those  who  wish  to  fathom 
his  full  political  importance  should  not  only  study  his  record  as 
Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  State  of  Pennsylvania,  when 
he  was  appointed  by  Governor  McKean,  but,  more  significant 
still,  the  part  he  took  in  the  Whiskey  Insurrection,  which  brought 
him  in  touch  with  Albert  Gallatin.  In  accord  with  the  temper 
of  the  times,  he  was  a  man  of  party  politics,  although  he  never 
allowed  his  prejudices  to  interfere  with  his  duties  on  the  bench. 
As  a  Judge,  his  term  of  office  ran  from  1800  to  the  day  of  his 
death,  June  25,  1816. 

Mr.  Brackenridge,  besides  being  the  author  of  the  dialogue 
and  play  mentioned,  likewise  wrote  several  other  dramas,  among 
them  being  a  tragedy,  "The  Death  of  General  Montgomery  at 
the  Siege  of  Quebec"  (1777),  and  a  number  of  Odes  and  Elegies. 
The  historical  student  will  find  much  material  relating  to  Brack- 
enridge's  political  manoeuvres,  in  his  book  on  the  Western 
Insurrection ;  but  probably  as  an  author  he  is  more  justly  famous 
for  his  series  of  stories  and  sketches  published  under  the  title, 
"Modern  Chivalry"  (1792),  and  representing  a  certain  type  of 
prose  writing  distinctive  of  American  letters  of  the  time  of  Clay 
and  Crawford.  These  impressions  were  later  added  to.  It  is  a 
type  to  be  compared  with  the  literary  work  done  in  the  Southern 


The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill  241 

States  by  J.  J.  Hooper,  Judge  Longstreet,  and  Judge  Baldwin 
in  ante-bellum  days. 

Among  Brackenridge's  other  works  may  be  mentioned: 

An  account  of  Pittsburgh  in  1786.  (Pittsburgh  Gazette,  July 
29,  1786.  Carnegie  Library,  Pittsburgh:  Monthly  Bulletin, 
1902,  v.,  257-262,  288-290,  332-335.) 

The  Adventures  of  Captain  Farrago.     Philadelphia,  1856. 

The  Adventures  of  Major  O'Regan.     Philadelphia,   1856. 

Gazette  Publications.     Carlisle,  1806. 

Incidents  of  the  Insurrection  in  the  western  parts  of  Pennsyl 
vania.  Philadelphia,  1795. 

Law  Miscellanies.     Philadelphia,  1814. 

Narrative  of  the  late  Expedition  against  the  Indians.    1798. 

An  Occasional  Paper  by  Democritus,  entitled  "The  Standard 
of  Liberty."  1802. 

Political  Miscellany.     1793. 

There  are  many  plays  extant  dealing  specifically  with  events 
connected  with  the  Revolution  and  the  War  of  1812.  For  a  dis 
cussion  of  same,  see  an  article  by  A.  E.  Lancaster,  "Historical 
American  Plays,"  Chautauquan,  31:359-364,  1900;  also  see  the 
present  editor's  "The  American  Dramatist,"  Chapter  III.  Note 
the  fojlowing  plays  particularly: 
C.  E.  GRICE.  "The  Battle  of  New  Orleans;  or,  Glory,  Love 

and  Loyalty."    An  Historical  and  National  Drama.     1816. 
W.  loor.    "The  Battle  of  the  Eutaw  Springs,  and  Evacuation  of 

Charleston;    or,  the  Glorious  I4th  of  December,   1782."     A 

National  Drama.    Played  in  Charleston,  1817. 
S.  B.  H.  JUDAH.    "A  Tale  of  Lexington."    A  National  Comedy, 

founded  on  the  opening  of  the  Revolution.    1823.. 


T  H  S 

BATTLE 

o  r 

BUNKERS-HILL, 

A    DRAMATIC      PIECE, 

Or      FIVE      ACTS, 
IN      HEROIC      MEASURE. 

BY    A   GENTLEMAN   ot  MARYLAND. 

•  Pulcrumqut  nori  /uccurrit   IK   armit. 

VIRGIL. 

Tis  glorious  to  die  in  Baltic. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

Printed  and  Sold  by  ROBERT    BELL,   in  Third-Street 


MDCCLXXVI. 


FAC-SIMILE  TITLE-PAGE  OF  THE  FIRST  EDITION 


TO 
RICHARD  STOCKTON,  Esquire; 

MEMBER 
OF  THE  HONOURABLE, 

THE 
CONTINENTAL  CONGRESS, 

for  the  State 
of 

NEW-JERSEY. 

SIR, 

I  take  the  Freedom  to  Inscribe  with  YOUR  Name,  the  following 
short  Performance  in  Honour  of  some  brave  MEN,  who  have 
fallen  in  the  Cause  of  LIBERTY. 

It  was  at  first  drawn  up  for  an  Exercise  in  Oratory,  to  a 
number  of  young  Gentlemen  in  a  southern  Academy,  but  being 
now  Published,  may  serve  the  same  Purpose,  in  other  AMERICAN 
Seminaries. 

The  many  Civilities,  received  from  YOUR  Family,  at  an  earlier 
Period  of  my  Life,  while  a  Student  at  NEW-JERSEY  College,  de 
mand  the  warmest  Gratitude;  and  I  do  continually,  with  the 
most  sincere  Pleasure,  recollect  and  acknowledge  them. 

It  is  my  fervent  wish,  that  the  Ruler  of  the  Universe  may 
Crown  with  Success,  the  Cause  of  FREEDOM,  and  speedily  relieve 
our  bleeding  Country  in  whose  Service  YOU  have  distinguishedly 
exerted  YOUR  eminent  Abilities,  by  assisting  HER  Deliberations 
in  the  grand  Council  of  the  Empire. 

SIR, 

I  am, 

With  great  Respect, 

Your  much  obliged, 

and  most  humble  Servant, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PROLOGUE 

to  the 
BATTLE 

of 
BUNKERS-HILL 

By  a  Lieutenant  Colonel  in  the  CONTINENTAL  ARMY.  .  UU  r 

This  mighty  Era  big  with  dread  alarms, 

Aloud  calls  each  AMERICAN  to  arms. 

Let  ev'ry  Breast  with  martial  ardour  glow, 

Nor  dread  to  meet  the  proud  usurping  foe. 

What  tho'  our  bodies  feel  an  earthly  chain, 

Still  the  free  soul,  unblemish'd  and  serene 

Enjoys  a  mental  LIBERTY, — a  charm, 

Beyond  the  power  of  fate  itself  to  harm. 

Should  vict'ry  crown  us  in  the  doubtful  strife — 

Eternal  honours  mark  the  hero's  life. 

Should  Wounds  and  slaughter  be  our  hapless  doom — 

Unfading  laurels  deck  the  Martyr's  Tomb: 

A  sure  reward  awaits  his  soul  on  high, 

On  earth  his  memory  shall  never  die, 

For  when  we  read  the  fatal  story  o'er, 

One  tear  shall  drop  for  him  who  is — no  more, 

Who  nobly  struggled  to  support  our  laws, 

And  bravely  fell  in  freedom's  sacred  cause. 

Let  virtue  fire  us  to  the  martial  deed ; 
We  fight  to  conquer  and  we  dare  to  bleed: 
Witness  ye  fathers !  whose  protracted  time, 
Fruitful  of  story,  chronicles  the  clime. 
These  howling  deserts,  hospitably  tame, 
Erst  snatch'd  you  martyrs,  from  the  hungry  flame; 
'Twas  Heav'n's  own  cause,  beneath  whose  shelt'ring  power, 
Ye  grew  the  wonder  of  this  present  hour — 


246 


Representative  Plays 


The  task — be  ours  with  unremitted  toil, 
To  guard  the  rights  of  this  dear-purchas'd  soil, 
From  Royal  plund'rers,  greedy  of  our  spoil, 
Who  come  resolv'd  to  murder  and  enslave, 
To  shackle  FREEMEN  and  to  rob  the  brave. 
The  loud  mouth'd  cannon  threaten  from  afar, 
Be  this  our  comfort  in  the  storm  of  war — 
Who  fights,  to  take  our  liberty  away, 
Dead-hearted  fights,  and  falls  an  easy  prey. 
Then,  on  my  brethren  to  the  embattl'd  plain, 
Who  shrinks  with  fear,  anticipates  a  chain. 


WARREN 
PUTNAM 
GARDINER 

GAGE 
HOWE 
BURGOYNE 
CLINTON 
LORD  PIGOT 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


American  Officers. 


British  Officers. 


SHERWIN,  Aide-de-camp  to  General  Howe. 
Soldiers,  &c. 


THE 
BATTLE 

OF 
BUNKERS-HILL 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.    Camp  at  Cambridge. 
Enter  WARREN,  PUTNAM,  and  GARDINER. 

WARREN. 

Why  thus,  brave  Putnam,  shall  we  still  encamp 
Inactive  here;  and  with  this  gentle  flood, 
By  Cambridge  murmuring,  mix  briny  tears? 
Salt  tears  of  grief  by  many  a  parent  shed, 
For  sons  detain'd,  and  tender  innocents 
In  yon  fair  City,  famishing  for  bread; 
For  not  fond  mothers  or  their  weeping  babes — 
Can  move  the  hard  heart  of  relentless  Gage. 
Perfidious  man !  Who  pledg'd  his  oath  so  late, 
And  word  of  honour  to  those  patriots 
Yet  in  his  power,  that  yielding  him  their  arms, 
They  should  receive  permission  to  depart, 
And  join  once  more  their  valiant  countrymen; 
But  now  detains  as  hostages  these  men, 
In  low  damp  dungeons,  and  in  gaols  chain'd  down 
While  grief  and  famine  on  their  vitals  prey. 
Say,  noble  Putnam,  shall  we  hear  of  this, 
And  let  our  idle  swords  rust  in  the  sheath, 
While  slaves  of  Royal  Power  impeach  our  worth 
As  vain,  and  call  our  patience  cowardice? 

PUTNAM. 

Not  less,  bold  Warren,  have  I  felt  the  pangs 
Of  woe  severe  in  this  calamity: 


248  Representative  Plays 

And  could  I  with  my  life  redeem  the  times, 
The  richest  blood  that  circles  round  my  heart, 
Should  hastily  be  shed.    But  what  avails 
The  genuine  flame  and  vigour  of  the  soul, 
When  nature's  self,  and  all  the  strength  of  art, 
Opposes  every  effort  in  our  power? 
These  sons  of  slavery  dare  not  advance, 
And  meet  in  equal  fight  our  hostile  arms. 
For  yet  they  well  remember  LEXINGTON, 
And  what  they  suffer'd  on  that  rueful  day, 
When  wantoning  in  savage  rage,  they  march'd 
Onward  to  CONCORD,  in  a  firm  array, 
Mock  music  playing,  and  the  ample  flag 
Of  tyranny  display'd ;  but  with  dire  loss 
And  infamy  drove  back,  they  gain'd  the  town, 
And  under  cover  of  their  ships  of  war, 
Retir'd,  confounded  and  dismay'd.     No  more 
In  mirthful  mood  to  combat  us,  or  mix 
Their  jocund  music  with  the  sounds  of  war. 
To  tempt  no  more  unequal  fight  with  men, 
Who  to  oppose  dire  arbitrary  sway, 
Have  grasp'd  the  sword;  and  resolute  to  brave 
Death  in  a  thousand  dreary  shapes,  can  know, 
In  the  warm  breast,  no  sentiment  of  fear. 

GARDINER. 

The  free  born  spirit  of  immortal  fire 
Is  stranger  to  ignoble  deeds,  and  shuns 
The  name  of  cowardice.     But  well  thy  mind, 
Sage,  and  matur'd  by  long  experience,  weighs 
The  perilous  attempt,  to  storm  the  town, 
And  rescue  thence,  the  suffering  citizens. 
For  but  one  pass  to  that  peninsula, 
On  which  the  city  stands,  on  all  sides  barr'd. 
And  here  what  numbers  can  supply  the  rage, 
Of  the  all  devouring,  deep  mouth'd  cannon,  plac'd, 
On  many  a  strong  redoubt:  while  on  each  side, 
The  ships  of  war,  moor'd,  in  the  winding  bay, 
Can  sweep  ten  thousand  from  the  level  beach, 
"And  render  all  access  impregnable." 


The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill  249 

WARREN. 

True,  valiant  Gard'ner,  the  attempt  is  vain, 
To  force  that  entrance  to  the  sea-girt  town ; 
Which  while  we  hop'd  for  peace,  and  in  that  view, 
Kept  back  our  swords,  we  saw  them  fortify. 
But  what  if  haply,  with  a  chosen  few, 
Led  through  the  midnight  shades,  yon  heights  were  gain'd, 
And  that  contiguous  hill,  whose  grassy  foot, 
By  Mystic's  gentle  tide  is  wash'd.     Here  rais'd, 
Strong  batt'ries  jutting  o'er  the  level  sea, 
With  everlasting  thunder,  shall  annoy 
Their  navy  far  beneath ;  and  in  some  lucky  hour, 
When  dubious  darkness  on  the  land  is  spread, 
A  chosen  band  may  pierce  their  sep'rate  fleet, 
And  in  swift  boats,  across  the  narrow  tide, 
Pour  like  a  flame,  on  their  unguarded  ranks, 
And  wither  them :  As  when  an  angel  smote 
The  Assyrian  camp.     The  proud  Sennacherib, 
With  impious  rage,  against  the  hill  of  God, 
Blasphem'd.     Low  humbl'd,  when  the  dawning  light, 
Saw  all  his  host  dead  men :  So  yet  I  trust, 
The  God  of  battles  will  avouch  our  cause, 
And  those  proud  champions  of  despotic  power, 
Who  turn  our  fasting  to  their  mirth,  and  mock 
Our  prayers,  naming  us  the  SAINTS,  shall  yet, 
Repay  with  blood,  the  tears  and  agonies, 
Of  tender  mothers,  and  their  infant  babes, 
Shut  up  in  BOSTON. 

PUTNAM. 

Heaven,  smile  on  us  then, 

And  favour  this  attempt.     Now  from  our  troops, 
Seven  hundred  gallant  men,  and  skill'd  in  arms, 
With  speed  select,  choice  spirits  of  the  war. 
By  you  led  on,  brave  Gard'ner,  to  the  heights, 
Ere  yet  the  morn  with  dawning  light  breaks  forth, 
Intrench  on  BUNKERS-HILL;  and  when  the  day 
First  o'er  the  hill  top  rises,  we  shall  join 
United  arms,  against  the  assailing  foe, 
Should  they  attempt  to  cross  the  narrow  tide, 
In  deep  battalion  to  regain  the  hill. 


250  Representative  Plays 

GARDINER. 

The  thought  is  perilous,  and  many  men, 
In  this  bold  enterprise,  must  strew  the  ground. 
But  since  we  combat  in  the  cause  of  God, 
I  draw  rny  sword,  nor  shall  the  sheath  again 
Receive  the  shining  blade,  till  on  the  heights 
Of  CHARLES-TOWN,  and  BUNKER'S  pleasant  HILL, 
It  drinks  the  blood  of  many  a  warrior  slain. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.   Boston. 
Enter  GAGE,  HOWE,  and  BURGOYNE. 

BURGOYNE. 

How  long,  brave  gen'rals,  shall  the  rebel  foe, 
In  vain  arrangements,  and  mock  siege,  display 
Their  haughty  insolence? — Shall  in  this  town, 
So  many  thousands,  of  Britannia's  troops, 
With  watch  incessant,  and  sore  toil  oppress'd, 
Remain  besieg'd?    A  vet'ran  army  pent, 
In  the  inclosure,  of  so  small  a  space, 
By  a  disorder'd  herd,  untaught,  unofficer'd. 
Let  not  sweet  Heav'n,  the  envious  mouth  of  fame, 
With  breath  malignant,  o'er  the  Atlantic  wave 
Bear  this  to  Europe's  shores,  or  tell  to  France, 
Or  haughty  Spain,  of  LEXINGTON'S  retreat. 
Who  could  have  thought  it,  in  the  womb  of  time, 
That  British  soldiers,  in  this  latter  age, 
Beat  back  by  peasants,  and  in  flight  disgrac'd, 
Could  tamely  brook  the  base  discomfiture; 
Nor  sallying  out,  with  spirit  reassum'd, 
Exact  due  tribute  of  their  victory? 
Drive  back  the  foe,  to  Alleghany  hills, 
In  woody  valleys,  or  on  mountain  tops, 
To  mix  with  wolves  and  kindred  savages. 

GAGE. 

This  mighty  paradox,  will  soon  dissolve. 
Hear  first,  Burgoyne,  the  valour  of  these  men, 


The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill  251 

Fir'd  with  the  zeal,  of  fiercest  liberty, 

No  fear  of  death,  so  terrible  to  all, 

Can  stop  their  rage.     Grey-headed  clergymen, 

With  holy  bible,  and  continual  prayer, 

Bear  up  their  fortitude — and  talk  of  heav'n, 

And  tell  them,  that  sweet  soul,  who  dies  in  battle, 

Shall  walk,  with  spirits  of  the  just.     These  words 

Add  wings  to  native  rage,  and  hurry  them 

Impetuous  to  war.     Nor  yet  in  arms 

Unpractised.    The  day  of  LEXINGTON 

A  sad  conviction  gave  our  soldiery, 

That  these  AMERICANS,  were  not  that  herd, 

And  rout  ungovern'd,  which  we  painted  them. 

HOWE. 

Not  strange  to  your  maturer  thought,  Burgoyne, 
This  matter  will  appear.    A  people  brave, 
Who  never  yet,  of  luxury,  or  soft 
Delights,  effeminate,  and  false,  have  tasted. 
But,  through  hate  of  chains,  and  slav'ry,  suppos'd, 
Forsake  their  mountain  tops,  and  rush  to  arms. 
Oft  have  I  heard  their  valour  published :  S 

Their  perseverance,  and  untamable, 
Fierce  mind,  when  late  they  fought  with  us,  and  drove, 
The  French  encroaching  on  their  settlements, 
Back  to  their  frozen  lakes.     Or  when  with  us 
On  Cape  Breton,  they  stormed  Louisburg. 
With  us  in  Canada,  they  took  Quebec; 
And  at  the  Havannah,  these  NEW-ENGLAND  MEN, 
Led  on  by  Putnam,  acted  gallantly. 
I  had  a  brother  once,  who  in  that  war, 
With  fame  commanded  them,  and  when  he  fell, 
Not  unlamented ;  for  these  warriors, 
So  brave  themselves,  and  sensible  of  merit, 
Erected  him  a  costly  monument; 
And  much  it  grieves  me  that  I  draw  my  sword, 
For  this  late  insurrection  and  revolt, 
To  chastise  them.     Would  to  Almighty  God, 
The  task  unnatural,  had  been  assign'd, 
Elsewhere!     But  since  by  Heaven,  determined, 
Let's  on,  and  wipe  the  day  of  LEXINGTON, 


252  Representative  Plays 

Thus  soil'd,  quite  from  our  soldiers'  memories. 
This  reinforcement,  which  with  us  have  fail'd, 
In  many  a  transport,  from  Britannia's  shores, 
Will  give  new  vigour  to  the  Royal  Arms, 
And  crush  rebellion,  in  its  infancy. 
Let's  on,  and  from  this  siege,  calamitous, 
Assert  our  liberty;  nay,  rather  die, 
Transfix'd  in  battle,  by  their  bayonets, 
Than  thus  remain,  the  scoff  and  ridicule 
Of  gibing  wits,  and  paltry  gazetteers, 
On  this,  their  madding  continent,  who  cry, 
Where  is  the  British  valour:  that  renown 
Which  spoke  in  thunder, 'to  the  Gallic  shores? 
That  spirit  is  evaporate,  that  fire; 
Which  erst  distinguish'd  them,  that  flame; 
And  gen'rous  energy  of  soul,  which  fill'd 
Their  Henrys,  Edwards,  thunder-bolts  of  war; 
/fheir  Hampdens,  Marlboroughs,  and  the  immortal  Wolfe, 
On  the  Abraham  heights,  victorious. 
Britannia's  genius,  is  unfortunate, 
And  flags,  say  they,  when  Royal  tyranny 
Directs  her  arms.    This  let  us  then  disprove, 
In  combat  speedily,  and  take  from  them, 
The  wantonness  of  this  fell  pride,  and  boasting. 

GAGE. 

Tho'  much  I  dread  the  issue  of  the  attempt, 
So  full  of  hazard,  and  advent'rous  spirit; 
Yet  since  your  judgment,  and  high  skill  in  arms, 
From  full  experience,  boldly  prompts  you  on, 
I  give  my  voice,  and  when  one  day  hath  pass'd, 
In  whose  swift  hours,  may  be  wrought,  highly  up, 
The  resolution,  of  the  soldiery, 
With  soothing  words,  and  ample  promises, 
Of  rich  rewards,  in  lands  and  settlements, 
From  the  confiscate  property  throughout, 
These  rebel  colonies,  at  length  subdu'd; 
Then  march  we  forth,  beat  up  their  drowsy  camp, 
And  with  the  sun,  to  this  safe  capital, 
Return,  rich,  with  the  triumphs  of  the  war. 
And  be  our  plan,  that  which  brave  Haldiman, 


The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill  253 

Ere  yet  recall'd,  advis'd  to  us.     Let  first, 

Brave  Howe,  and  Clinton,  on  that  western  point, 

Land  with  the  transports,  and  mean  time  Burgoyne, 

With  the  artillery,  pour  sharp  cannonade, 

Along  the  neck,  and  sweep,  the  beachy  plain, 

Which  lies  to  Roxborough,  where  yon  western  stream, 

Flowing  from  Cambridge,  mixes  with  the  Bay. 

Thus,  these  AMERICANS,  shall  learn  to  dread, 

The  force  of  discipline,  and  skill  in  arms. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.  Bunkers-Hill. 
Enter  GARDINER,  with  seven  hundred  men. 

GARDINER. 

This  is  the  hill,  brave  countrymen,  whose  brow 
We  mean  to  fortify.     A  strong  redoubt, 
With  saliant  angles,  and  embrasures  deep, 
Be  speedily  thrown  up.    Let  each  himself, 
Not  undeserving,  of  our  choice  approve, 
For  out  of  thousands,  I  have  challeng'd  you, 
To  this  bold  enterprise,  as  men  of  might, 
And  valour  eminent,  and  such  this  day, 
I  trust,  will  honour  you.     Let  each  his  spade, 
And  pick-axe,  vig'rously,  in  this  hard  soil, 
Where  I  have  laid,  the  curved  line,  exert. 
For  now  the  morning  star,  bright  Lucifer, 
Peers  on  the  firmament,  and  soon  the  day,  / 
Flush'd  with  the  golden  sun,  shall  visit  us. 
Then  gallant  countrymen,  should  faithless  Gage, 
Pour  forth  his  lean,  and  half-starv'd  myrmidons; 
We'll  make  them  taste  our  cartridges,  and  know, 
What  rugged  steel,  our  bayonets  are  made  of; 
Or  if  o'er  charg'd,  with  numbers,  bravely  fall, 
Like  those  three  hundred  at  Thermopylae, 
And  give  our  Country,  credit  in  our  deaths. 


254  Representative  Plays 

ACT  IV. 
SCENE  I.   Boston. 

GAGE  [solus\. 

Oh,  sweet  tranquillity,  and  peace  of  soul, 
That  in  the  bosom  of  the  cottager, 
Tak'st  up  thy  residence — cannot  the  beams, 
Of  royal  sunshine,  call  thee  to  my  breast  ? 
Fair  honour,  waits  on  thee,  renown  abroad, 
And  high  dominion,  o'er  this  Continent, 
Soon  as  the  spirit,  of  rebellious  war, 
Is  scourg'd  into  obedience.     Why  then,  ye  Gods, 
This  inward  gnawing,  and  remorse  of  thought, 
For  perfidy,  and  breach  of  promises! 
Why  should  the  spouse,  or  weeping  infant  babe, 
Or  meek  ey'd  virgin,  with  her  sallow  cheek, 
The  rose  by  famine,  wither'd  out  of  it; 
Or  why  the  father,  or  his  youthful  son, 
By  me  detain'd,  from  all  their  relatives, 
And,  in  low  dungeons,  and,  in  Gaols  chain'd  down, 
Affect  my  spirit,  when  the  mighty  cause, 
Of  George  and  Britain,  is  endangered  ? 
For  nobly  struggling,  in  the  cause  of  kings, 
We  claim  the  high,  the  just  prerogative, 
To  rule  mankind,  and  with  an  iron  rod, 
Exact  submission,  due,  tho'  absolute. 
What  tho'  they  style  me,  villain,  murderer, 
And  imprecate  from  Heaven,  dire  thunderbolts, 
To  crush  my  purposes — Was  that  a  gun, 
Which  thunders  o'er  the  wave? — Or  is  it  guilt, 
That  plays  the  coward,  with  my  trembling  heart, 
And  cools  the  blood,  with  frightful  images. 
O  guilt,  thy  blackness,  hovers  on  the  mind, 
Nor  can  the  morning  dissipate  thy  shades. 
Yon  ruddy  morn,  which  over  BUNKERS-HILL, 
Advancing  slowly,  blushes  to  the  bay, 
And  tips  with  gold  the  spires  of  CHARLES-TOWN. 

Enter  BURGOYNE. 

The  rebel  foe,  grown  yet  more  insolent, 
By  that  small  loss,  or  rout,  at  LEXINGTON, 


The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill  255 

Prevent  our  purpose  and  the  night  by-past, 
Have  push'd  intrenchments,  and  some  flimsy  works, 
With  rude  achievement,  on  the  rocky  brow, 
Of  that  tall  hill.     A  ship-boy,  with  the  day, 
From  the  tall  mast-head,  of  the  Admiral, 
Descry'd  their  aim,  and  gave  the  swift  alarm. 
Our  glasses  mark,  but  one  small  regiment  there, 
Yet,  ev'ry  hour  we  languish  in  delay, 
Inspires  fresh  hope,  and  fills  their  pig'my  souls, 
With  thoughts  of  holding  it.     You  hear  the  sound 
Of  spades  and  pick-axes,  upon  the  hill, 
Incessant,  pounding,  like  old  Vulcan's  forge, 
Urg'd  by  the  Cyclops. 

Enter  HOWE. 

To  your  alarm  posts,  officers;  come,  gallant  souls, 
Let's  out,  and  drive  them  from  that  eminence, 
On  which  the  foe,  doth  earth  himself. 
I  relish  not,  such  haughty  neighbourhood. 
Give  orders,  swiftly,  to  the  Admiral, 
That  some  stout  ship  heave  up  the  narrow  bay, 
And  pour  indignant,  from  the  full-tide  wave, 
Fierce  cannonade,  across  the  isthmus  point, 
That  no  assistance  may  be  brought  to  them. 
If  but'seven  hundred,  we  can  treat  with  them. 
Yes,  strew  the  hill,  with  death,  and  carcasses, 
And  offer  up,  this  band,  a  hecatomb, 
To  Britain's  glory,  and  the  cause  of  kings. 

[Exeunt  BURGOYNE  and  HOWE. 

GAGE  [solus], 

May  Heaven  protect  us,  from  their  rage,  I  say, 
When  but  a  boy,  I  dream'd  of  death  in  bed, 
And  ever  since  that  time,  I  hated  things 
Which  put  him,  like  a  pair  of  spectacles, 
Before  my  eyes.     The  thought  lies  deep  in  fate, 
Nor  can  a  mortal  see  the  bottom  of  it. 
'Tis  here — 'Tis  there — I  could  philosophize — 
Eternity,  is  like  a  winding  sheet — 

The  seven  commandments  like — I  think  there's  seven — 
I  scratch  my  head — but  yet  in  vain  I  scratch — 
Oh  Bute,  and  Dartmouth,  knew  ye  what  I  feel, 


256  Representative  Plays 

You  sure  would  pity  an  old  drinking  man, 
That  has  more  heart-ake,  than  philosophy. 

[Exit 

SCENE  II.   HOWE  with  the  British  Army. 

HOWE. 

The  day  at  length,  propitious  shews  itself, 
And  with  full  beams  of  majesty,  the  sun, 
Hath  bless'd  its  fair  nativity;  when  Heaven, 
Brave  soldiers,  and  the  cause  of  kings, 
Calls  on  the  spirit  of  your  loyalty, 
To  chastise  this  rebellion,  and  tread  down, 
Such  foul  ingratitude — such  monstrous  shape, 
Of  horrid  liberty,  which  spurns  that  love — 
That  fond  maternal  tenderness  of  soul, 
Which  on  this  dreary  coast,  first  planted  them: 
Restrain'd  the  rage,  of  murdering  savages, 
Which,  with  fierce  inroad,  on  their  settlements, 
MadeN  frequent  war — struck  down  the  arm  of  France, 
Just  rais'd,  to  crush  them,  in  their  infancy: 
And  since  that  time,  have  bade  their  cities  grow, 
To  marts  of  trade:  call'd  fair-ey'd  commerce  forth, 
To  share  dominion,  on  the  distant  wave, 
And  visjt  every  clime,  and  foreign  shore. 
Yet  this,  brave  soldiers,  is  the  proud  return, 
For  the  best  blood  of  England,  shed  for  them. 
Behold  yon  hill,  where  fell  rebellion  rears 
Her  snake-stream'd  ensign,  and  would  seem  to  brave 
With  scarce  seven  hundred,  this  sea-bounded  Camp, 
Where  may  be  counted,  full  ten  thousand  men, 
That  in  the  war  with  France  so  late,  acquir'd 
Loud  fame,  and  shook  the  other  continent. 
Come  on,  brave  soldiers,  seize  your  gleaming  arms, 
And  letlhis  day,  in  after  times  be  held, 
As  Minden  famous,  and  each  hostile  field, 
Where  British  valour  shone  victorious. 
The  time  moves  slow,  which  enviously  detains, 
Our  just  resentment  from  these  traitors'  heads. 
Their  richest  farms,  and  cultur'd  settlements, 
By  winding  river,  or  extensive  bay, 


The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill  257 

!  Shall  be  your  firstjewanL    Our  noble  king, 
As  things  confiscate,  holds  their  property, 
And  in  rich  measure,  will  bestow  on  you, 
Who  face  the  frowns,  and  labour  of  this  day. 
He  that  outlives  this  battle,  shall  ascend, 
In  titled  honour,  to  the  height  of  state, 
Dukedoms,  and  baronies,  midst  these  our  foes, 
In  tributary  vassalage,  kept  down, 
Shall  be  your  fair  inheritance.    Come  on, 
Beat  up  th'  heroic  sound  of  war.     The  word 
Is,  George  our  sov'reign,  and  Britannia's  arms. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.   Bunkers-Hill. 
WARREN  with  the  American  Army. 

WARREN. 

To  arms,  brave  countrymen,  for  see  the  foe 
Comes  forth  to  battle,  and  would  seem  to  try, 
Once  more,  their  fortune  in  decisive  war. 
Three  thousand,  'gainst  seven  hundred,  rang'd  this  day, 
Shall  give  the  world,  an  ample  specimen, 
What  strength,  and  noble  confidence,  the  sound 
Of  Liberty  inspires.     That  Liberty, 
Which,  not  the  thunder  of  Bellona's  voice, 
With  fleets,  and  armies,  from  the  British  Shore, 
Shall  wrest  from  us.     Our  noble  ancestors, 
Out-brav'd  the  tempests,  of  the  hoary  deep, 
And  on  these  hills,  uncultivate,  and  wild, 
Sought  an  asylum,  from  despotic  sway; 
A  short  asylum,  for  that  envious  power, 
With  persecution  dire,  still  follows  us. 
At  first,  they  deem'd  our  charters  forfeited. 
Next,  our  just  rights,  in  government,  abridg'd. 
Then,  thrust  in  viceroys,  and  bashaws,  to  rule, 
With  lawless  sovereignty.     Now  added  force, 
Of  standing  armies,  to  secure  their  sway. 
Much  have  we  suffer'd  from  the  licens'd  rage, 
Of  brutal  soldiery,  in  each  fair  town. 


258  Representative  Plays 

Remember  March,  brave  countrymen,  that  day 

When  BOSTON'S  streets  ran  blood.    Think  on  that  day, 

And  let  the  memory,  to  revenge,  stir  up, 

The  temper  of  your  souls.     There  might  we  still, 

On  terms  precarious,  and  disdainful  liv'd, 

With  daughters  ravished,  and  butcher'd  sons, 

But  Heaven  forbade  the  thought.     These  are  the  men, 

Who  in  firm  phalanx,  threaten  us  with  war, 

And  aim  this  day,  to  fix  forever  down, 

The  galling  chains,  which  tyranny  has  forg'd  for  us, 

These  count  our  lands  and  settlements  their  own, 

And  in  their  intercepted  letters,  speak, 

Of  farms,  and  tenements,  secured  for  friends, 

Which,  if  they  gain,  brave  soldiers,  let  with  blood, 

The  purchase,  be  seal'd  down.     Let  every  arm, 

This  day  be  active,  in  fair  freedom's  cause, 

And  shower  down,  from  the  hill,  like  Heav'n  in  wrath, 

Full  store  of  lightning,  and  fierce  iron  hail, 

To  blast  the  adversary.     Let  this  ground, 

Like  burning  ^Etna  or  Vesuvius  top, 

Be  wrapt  in  flame — The  word  is,  LIBERTY, 

And  Heaven  smile  on  us,  in  so  just  a  cause. 

SCENE  II.   Bunkers-Hill. 

GARDINER  [leading  up  his  men  to  the  engagement}. 
Fear  not,  brave  soldiers,  tho'  their  infantry, 
In  deep  array,  so  far  out-numbers  us. 
The  justness  of  our  cause,  will  brace  each  arm, 
And  steel  the  soul,  with  fortitude;  while  they, 
Whose  guilt  hangs  trembling,  on  their  consciences, 
Must  fail  in  battle,  and  receive  that  death, 
Which,  in  high  vengeance,  we  prepare  for  them. 
Let  then  each  spirit,  to  the  height,  would  up, 
Shew  noble  vigour,  and  full  force  this  day. 
For  on  the  merit,  of  our  swords,  is  plac'd, 
The  virgin  honour,  and  true  character, 
Of  this  whole  Continent:  and  one  short  hour, 
May  give  complexion,  to  the  whole  event, 
Fixing  the  judgment  whether  as  base  slaves, 
We  serve  these  masters,  or  more  nobly  live, 


The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill  259 

Free  as  the  breeze,  that  on  the  hill-top,  plays, 

With  these  sweet  fields,  and  tenements,  our  own. 

O  fellow  soldiers,  let  this  battle  speak, 

Dire  disappointment,  to  the  insulting  foe, 

Who  claim  our  fair  possessions,  and  set  down, 

These  cultur'd-farms,  and  bowry-hills,  and  plains, 

As  the  rich  prize,  of  certain  victory. 

Shall  we,  the  sons  of  MASSACHUSETTS-BAY, 

NEW  HAMPSHIRE,  and  CONNECTICUT  ;  shall  we 

Fall  back,  dishonour'd,  from  our  native  plains, 

Mix  with  the  savages,  and  roam  for  food, 

On  western  mountains,  or  the  desert  shores, 

Of  Canada's  cold  lakes?  or  state  more  vile, 

Sit  down,  in  humble  vassalage,  content 

To  till  the  ground  for  these  proud  conquerors? 

No,  fellow  soldiers,  let  us  rise  this  day, 

Emancipate,  from  such  ignoble  choice. 

And  should  the  battle  ravish  our  sweet  lives, 

Late  time  shall  give,  an  ample  monument,       V 

And  bid  her  worthies,  emulate  our  fame. 

SCENE  III.   Boston. 

The  British  Army  being  repulsed,  SHERWIN  is  dispatch1  d  to 
GENERAL  GAGE,  for  assistance. 

SHERWIN,  GAGE,  BURGOYNE,  and  CLINTON. 

SHERWIN. 

Our  men  advancing,  have  receiv'd  dire  loss, 
In  this  encounter,  and  the  case  demands, 
In  swift  crisis,  of  extremity, 
A  thousand  men  to  reinforce  the  war. 

GAGE. 

Do  as  you  please,  Burgoyne,  in  this  affair, 
I'll  hide  myself  in  some  deep  vault  beneath. 

[Exit. 

BURGOYNE. 

'Tis  yours,  brave  Clinton,  to  command,  these  men. 
Embark  them  speedily.     I  see  our  troops, 
Stand  on  the  margin  of  the  ebbing  flood 


26o      •  Representative  Plays 

(The  flood  affrighted,  at  the  scene  it  views), 
And  fear,  once  more,  to  climb  the  desp'rate  hill, 
Whence  the  bold  rebel,  show'rs  destruction  down. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. 

WARREN. 
Mortatty  wounded,  jailing  on  his  right  knee,  covering  his  breast 

with  his  rcght  hand,  and  supporting  himself  with  his  firelock 

in  his  left. 

A  deadly  ball  hath  limited  my  life, 
And  now  to  God,  I  offer  up  my  soul. 
But  O  my  Countrymen,  let  not  the  cause, 
The  sacred  cause  of  liberty,  with  me 
Faint  or  expire.     By  the  last  parting  breath, 
And  blood  of  this  your  fellow  soldier  slain, 
Be  now  adjur'd,  never  to  yield  the  right, 
The  grand  deposit  of  all-giving  Heaven, 
To  man's  free  nature,  that  he  rule  himself. 
With  these  rude  Britons,  wage  life-scorning  war, 
Till  they  admit  it,  and  like  hell  fall  off, 
With  ebbing  billows,  from  this  troubl'd  coast, 
Where  but  for  them  firm  Concord,  and  true  love, 
Should  individual,  hold  their  court  and  reign. 
Th'  infernal  engin'ry  of  state,  resist 
To  death,  that  unborn  times  may  be  secure, 
And  while  men  flourish  in  the  peace  you  win, 
Write  each  fair  name  with  worthies  of  the  earth. 
Weep  not  your  Gen'ral,  who  is  snatch'd  this  day, 
From  the  embraces  of  a  family, 
Five  virgin  daughters  young,  and  unendow'd, 
Now  with  the  foe  left  lone  and  fatherless. 
Weep  not  for  him  who  first  espous'd  the  cause 
And  risking  life  have  met  the  enemy, 
In  fatal  opposition — But  rejoice — 
For  now  I  go  to  mingle  with  the  dead, 
Great  Brutus,  Hampden,  Sidney,  and  the  rest, 
Of  old  or  modern  memory,  who  liv'd, 
A  mound  to  tyrants,  and  strong  hedge  to  kings, 
Bounding  the  inundation  of  their  rage, 


The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill  261 

Against  the  happiness  and  peace  of  man. 
I  see  these  heroes  where  they  walk  serene, 
By  crystal  currents,  on  the  vale  of  Heaven, 
High  in  full  converse  of  immortal  acts, 
Achiev'd  for  truth  and  innocence  on  earth. 
Mean  time  the  harmony  and  thrilling  sound 
Of  mellow  lutes,  sweet  viols,  and  guitars, 
Dwell  on  the  soul  and  ravish  ev'ry  nerve. 
Anon  the  murmur  of  the  tight-brac'd  drum, 
With  finely  varied  fifes  to  martial  airs, 
Wind  up  the  spirit  to  the  mighty  proof 
Of  siege  and  battle,  and  attempt  in  arms. 
Illustrious  group!     They  beckon  me  along, 
To  ray  my  visage  with  immortal  light, 
And  bind  the  amarinth  around  my  brow. 
I  come,  I  come,  ye  first-born  of  true  fame. 
Fight  on,  my  countrymen,  be  FREE,  be  FREE. 

SCENE  V.    Charles-town. 

The  reinforcement  landed,  and  orders  given  to  burn  Charles-town, 
that  they  may  march  up  more  securely  under  the  smoke.  GENERAL 
HOWE  rallies  his  repuls'd  and  broken  troops. 

HOWE. 

Curse  on  the  fortune,  of  Britannia's  arms, 
That  plays  the  jilt  with  us.     Shall  these  few  men 
Beat  back  the  flower,  and  best  half  of  our  troops, 
While  on  our  side,  so  many  ships  of  war, 
And  floating  batt'ries,  from  the  mystic  tide, 
Shake  all  the  hill,  and  sweep  its  ridgy  top? 
O  Gods!  no  time  can  blot  its  memory  out. 
We've  men  enough,  upon  the  field  today, 
To  bury,  this  small  handful,  with  the  dust 
Our  march  excites — back  to  the  charge — close  ranks, 
And  drive  these  wizards  from  th'  enchanted  ground. 
The  reinforcement,  which  bold  Clinton  heads, 
Gives  such  superiority  of  strength, 
That  let  each  man  of  us  but  cast  a  stone, 
We  cover  this  small  hill,  with  these  few  foes, 
And  over  head,  erect  a  pyramid. 
The  smoke,  you  see,  enwraps  us  in  its  shade, 


262  Representative  Plays 

On,  then,  my  countrymen,  and  try  once  more, 
To  change  the  fortune,  of  the  inglorious  day. 

SCENE  VI.   Bunkers-Hill. 

GARDINER  [to  the  American  Army}. 
You  see,  brave  soldiers,  how  an  evil  cause, 
A  cause  of  slavery,  and  civil  death, 
Unmans  the  spirit,  and  strikes  down  the  soul. 
The  gallant  Englishman,  whose  fame  in  arms, 
Through  every  clime,  shakes  terribly  the  globe, 
Is  found  this  day,  shorn  of  his  wonted  strength, 
Repuls'd,  and  driven  from  the  flaming  hill. 
Warren  is  fallen,  on  fair  honour's  bed, 
Pierc'd  in  the  breast,  with  ev'ry  wound  before. 
'Tis  ours,  now  tenfold,  to  avenge  his  death, 
And  offer  up,  a  reg'ment  of  the  foe, 
Achilles-like,  upon  the  Hero's  tomb. 
See,  reinforc'd  they  face  us  yet  again, 
And  onward  move  in  phalanx  to  the  war. 

0  noble  spirits,  let  this  bold  attack, 

Be  bloody  to  their  host.     GOD  is  our  Aid, 
Give  then  full  scope,  to  just  revenge  this  day. 

SCENE  VII.    The  Bay-Shore. 

The  British  Army  once  more  repuls'd,  HOWE  again  rallies  his 
flying  troops. 

HOWE. 
But  that  so  many  mouths  can  witness  it, 

1  would  deny  myself  an  Englishman, 

And  swear  this  day,  that  with  such  cowardice, 
No  kindred,  or  alliance,  has  my  birth. 
O  base  degen'rate  souls,  whose  ancestors, 
At  Cressy,  Poitiers,  and  at  Agincourt, 
With  tenfold  numbers,  combated,  and  pluck'd 
The  budding  laurels,  from  the  brows  of  France. 
Back  to  the  charge,  once  more,  and  rather  die, 
Burn'd  up,  and  wither'd  on  this  bloody  hill, 
Than  live  the  blemish  of  your  Country's  fame, 


The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill  263 

With  everlasting  infamy,  oppress'd. 
Their  ammunition,  as  you  hear,  is  spent, 
So  that  unless  their  looks,  and  visages, 
Like  fierce-ey'd  Basilisks,  can  strike  you  dead; 
Return,  and  rescue  yet,  sweet  Countrymen, 
Some  share  of  honour,  on  this  hapless  day. 
Let  some  brave  officers  stand  on  the  rear, 
And  with  the  small  sword,  and  sharp  bayonet, 
Drive  on  each  coward  that  attempts  to  lag, 
That  thus,  sure  death  may  find  the  villain  out, 
With  more  dread  certainty,  than  him  who  moves, 
Full  in  the  van,  to  meet  the  wrathful  foe. 

SCENE  VIII.   Bunkers-Hill. 

GARDINER,  desperately  wounded  and  borne  from  the  field  by  two 
soldiers. 

GARDINER. 

A  musket-ball,  death-wing'd,  hath  pierc'd  my  groin, 
And  widely  op'd  the  swift  curr'nt  of  my  veins. 
Bear  me  then,  Soldiers,  to  that  hollow  space, 
A  little  hence,  just  in  the  hill's  decline. 
A  surgeon  there  may  stop  the  gushing  wound, 
And  gain  a  short  respite  to  life,  that  yet 
I  may  return,  and  fight  one  half  hour  more. 
Then,  shall  I  die  in  peace,  and  to  my  GOD, 
Surrender  up,  the  spirit,  which  He  gave. 

SCENE  IX. 

PUTNAM  [to  the  American  Army}. 
Swift-rising  fame,  on  early  wing,  mounts  up, 
To  the  convexity  of  bending  Heaven, 
And  writes  each  name,  who  fought  with  us  this  day, 
In  fairest  character,  amidst  the  stars. 
The  world  shall  read  it,  and  still  talk  of  us, 
Who,  far  out-number'd,  twice  drove  back  the  foe, 
With  carnage  horrid,  murm'ring  to  their  ships. 
The  Ghost  of  Warren  says,  enough — I  see 
One  thousand  veterans,  mingled  with  the  dust. 


264,  Representative  Plays 

Now,  for  our  sacred  honour,  and  the  wound, 

Which  Gard'ner  feels,  once  more  we  charge — once  more, 

Dear  friends,  and  fence  the  obscur'd  hill 

With  hecatombs  of  slain.     Let  every  piece 

Flash,  like  the  fierce-consuming  fire  of  Heaven, 

And  make  the  smoke,  in  which  they  wrap  themselves, 

"A  darkness  visible." — Now  once  again, 

Receive  the  battle,  as  a  shore  of  rock 

The  ocean  wave.     And  if  at  last  we  yield, 

Leave  many  a  death,  amidst  their  hollow  ranks, 

To  damp  the  measure,  of  their  dear-bought  joy. 


SCENE  X  and  Last.   Bunkers-Hill. 

The  American  Army  overpowered  by  numbers  are  obliged  to  retreat. 

Enter  HOWE,  PIGOT,  and  CLINTON  with  the  British  Army. 

RICHARDSON  [a  young  officer,  on  the  parapet}. 

The  day  is  ours,  huzza,  the  day  is  ours, 
This  last  attack  has  forc'd  them  to  retreat. 

CLINTON. 

'Tis  true,  full  victory  declares  for  us, 
But  we  have  dearly,  dearly  purchas'd  it. 
Full  fifteen  hundred  of  our  men  lie  dead, 
Who,  with  their  officers,  do  swell  the  list 
Of  this  day's  carnage — On  the  well-fought  hill, 
Whole  ranks  cut  down,  lie  struggling  with  their  wounds, 
Or  close  their  bright  eyes,  in  the  shades  of  night. 
No  wonder!  such  incessant  musketry, 
And  fire  of  Cannon,  from  the  hill-top  pour'd, 
Seem'd  not  the  agency  of  mortal  men, 
But  Heaven  itself,  with  snares,  _and  vengeance  arm'd, 
T'  oppose  our  gaining  it.     E'en  when  was  spent 
Their  ammunition,  and  fierce  Warren  slain, 
Huge  stones  were  hurled  from  the  rocky  brow, 
And  war  renew'd,  by  these  inveterate; 
Till  Gard'ner  wounded,  the  left  wing  gave  way, 
And  with  their  shatter'd  infantry,  the  whole, 
Drawn  off  by  Putnam,  to  the  causeway  fled, 


The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill  265 

When  from  the  ships,  and  batt'ries  on  the  wave 
They  met  deep  loss,  and  strew'd  the  narrow  bridge, 
With  lifeless  carcases.     Oh,  such  a  day, 
Since  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  sunk  in  flames, 
Hath  not  been  heard  of  by  the  ear  of  man, 
Nor  hath  an  eye  beheld  its  parallel. 

LORD  PIGOT. 

The  day  is  ours,  but  with  heart-piercing  loss, 
Of  soldiers  slain,  and  gallant  officers. 
Old  Abercrombie,  on  the  field  lies  dead. 
Pitcairn  and  Sherwin,  in  sore  battle  slain. 
The  gallant  reg'ment  of  Welsh  fusileers, 
To  seventeen  privates,  is  this  day  reduc'd. 
The  grenadiers  stand  thinly  on  the  hill, 
Like  the  tall  fir-trees  on  the  blasted  heath, 
Scorch'd  by  the  autumnal  burnings,  which  have  rush'd, 
With  wasting  fire  fierce  through  its  leafy  groves. 
Should  ev'ry  hill  by  the  rebellious  foe, 
So  well  defended,  cost  thus  dear  to  us, 
Not  the  united  forces  of  the  world, 
Could  master  them,  and  the  proud  rage  subdue 
Of  these  AMERICANS. — 

HOWE. 

E'en  in  an  enemy  I  honour  worth, 
And  valour  eminent.     The  vanquish'd  foe, 
In  feats  of  prowess  shew  their  ancestry, 
And  speak  their  birth  legitimate; 
The  sons  of  Britons,  with  the  genuine  flame, 
Of  British  heat,  and  valour  in  their  veins. 
What  pity  'tis,  such  excellence  of  mind, 
Should  spend  itself,  in  the  fantastic  cause, 
Of  wild-fire  liberty. — Warren  is  dead, 
And  lies  unburied,  on  the  smoky  hill; 
But  with  rich  honours  he  shall  be  inhum'd, 
To  teach  our  soldiery,  how  much  we  love, 
E'en  in  a  foe,  true  worth  and  noble  fortitude. 
Come  then,  brave  soldiers,  and  take  up  the  dead, 
Majors,  and  Col'nels,  which  are  this  day  slain, 
And  noble  Captains  of  sweet  life  bereft. 
Fair  flowers  shall  grow  upon  their  grassy  tombs, 


266  Representative  Plays 

And  fame  in  tears  shall  tell  their  tragedy, 
To  many  a  widow  and  soft  weeping  maid, 
Or  parent  woe-ful  for  an  only  son, 
Through  mourning  Britain,  and  Hibernians  isle. 

Enter  BURGOYNE  from  Boston. 
Oft  have  I  read,  in  the  historic  page, 
And  witnessed  myself,  high  scenes  in  war: 
But  this  rude  day,  unparallel'd  in  time, 
Has  no  competitor — The  gazing  eye, 
Of  many  a  soldier,  from  the  chimney-tops, 
And  spires  of  Boston,  witnessed  when  Howe, 
With  his  full  thousands,  moving  up  the  hill, 
Receiv'd  the  onset  of  the  impetuous  foe. 
The  hill  itself,  like  Ida's  burning  mount, 
When  Jove  came  down,  in  terrors,  to  dismay 
The  Grecian  host,  enshrouded  in  thick  flames; 
And  round  its  margin,  to  the  ebbing  wave, 
A  town  on  fire,  and  rushing  from  its  base, 
With  ruin  hideous,  and  combustion  down. 
Mean  time,  deep  thunder,  from  the  hollow  sides 
Of  the  artill'ry,  on  the  hilltop  hear'd, 
With  roar  of  thunder,  and  loud  mortars  play'd, 
From  the  tall  ships,  and  batt'ries  on  the  wave, 
Bade  yon  blue  ocean,  and  wide  heaven  resound. 
A  scene  like  which,  perhaps,  no  time  shall  know, 
Till  Heav'n  with  final  ruin  fires  the  ball, 
Burns  up  the  cities,  and  the  works  of  men, 
And  wraps  the  mountains  in  one  gen'ral  blaze. 

[Exeunt. 
The  End. 


EPILOGUE 

Written  by  a  Gentleman  of  the  Army. 

Supposed  to  be  spoken,  immediately  after  the  Battle;  by  LIEUTEN 
ANT  COLONEL  WEBB,  Aide-de-camp  to  GENERAL .BUINAM. 

The  field  is  theirs,  but  dearly  was  it  bought, 
Thus  long  defended  and  severely  fought. 
Now  pale-fac'd  death  sits  brooding  o'er  the  strand, 
And  views  the  carnage  of  his  ruthless  hand. 
But  why  my  heart  this  deep  unbidden  sigh, 
Why  steals  the  tear,  soft  trickling  from  the  eye? 
Is  IT%EEDOM  master'd  by  our  late  defeat, 
Or  HONOUR  wounded  by  a  brave  retreat? 
Tis  nature  dictates;  and  in  pride's  despite, 
I  mourn  my  brethren  slaughter'd  in  the  fight. 
Th'  insulting  foe  now  revels  o'er  the  ground, 
Yet  flush'd  with  victory,  they  feel  the  wound. 
Embru'd  in  gore,  they  bleed  from  ev'ry  part, 
And  deep  wounds  rankle  at  Britannia's  heart. 
O  fatal  conquest!   Speak  thou  crimson'd  plain, 
Now  press'd  beneath  the  weight  of  hundreds  slain ! 
There  heaps  of  British  youth  promiscuous  lie, 
Here,  murder'd  FREEMEN  catch  the  wand'ring  eye. 
Observe  yon  stripling  bath'd  in  purple  gore, 
He  bleeds  for  FREEDOM  on  his  native  shore. 
His  livid  eyes  in  drear  convulsions  roll, 
While  from  his  wounds  escapes  the  flutt'ring  soul, 
Breathless  and  naked  on  th'  ensanguin'd  plain, 
Midst  friends  and  brothers,  sons  and  fathers  slain. 
No  pitying  hand  his  languid  eyes  to  close, 
He  breathes  his  last  amidst  insulting  foes; 
His  body  plunder'd,  massacred,  abus'd; 
By  Christians — Christian  fun'ral  rites  refus'd — 
Thrown  as  a  carrion  in  the  public  way, 
To  Dogs,  to  Britons,  and  to  Birds  a  prey. 
Enwrapt  in  sulph'rous  flame  and  clouds  of  smoke, 


268  Representative  Plays 

Brave  Gard'ner  sinks  beneath  the  deadly  stroke, 

And  Warren  bleeds  to  grace  the  bloody  strife, 

And  for  his  injur'd  country  gives  his  life. 

Yet  while  his  mighty  soul  ascends  the  skies, 

On  earth  his  blood  for  ten-fold  vengeance  cries. 

Great  spirit  rest — by  Heaven  it  is  decreed, 

Thy  murd'ring  tyrants  by  the  sword  shall  bleed. 

E'en  racks  and  gibbets  would  but  consecrate, 

And  death  repeated  be  too  kind  a  fate. 

The  sword  is  drawn,  in  peace  no  more  to  rest, 

Till  justice  bathes  it  in  some  tyrant's  breast. 

Honour  my  weapon  with  the  glorious  task, 

And  let  me  stab,  'tis  all  the  boon  I  ask. 

Kind  pow'rs,  beneath  your  all-protecting  shield, 

I  now  unsheathe  my  sword,  and  take  the  field 

Sure  of  success,  with  this  sweet  comfort  giv'n, 

Who  fights  for  FREEDOM, — fights  the  cause  of  HEAV'N. 


AN  ODE 
on  the  Battle  of  BUNKERS-HILL. 

Sung  and  Acted  by  a  Soldier  in  a  Military  Habit,  with  his  Firelock, 

fire. 

In  the  Same  Measure  with  a  Sea  Piece,  Entitled  the  "Tempest." 
— Cease,  rude  Boreas,  btust'ring  railer — 


I. 

You  bold  warriors,  who  resemble 

Flames,  upon  the  distant  hill, 
At  whose  view,  the  heroes  tremble, 

Fighting  with  unequal  skill. 
Loud-sounding  drums  now  with  hoarse  murmurs, 

Rouse  the  spirit  up  to  war, 
Fear  not,  fear  not,  tho'  their  numbers, 

Much  to  ours,  superior  are. 
Hear  brave  WARREN  bold  commanding, 

"Gallant  souls  and  vet'rans  brave, 
See  the  enemy  just  landing, 

From  the  navy-cover'd  wave. 
Close  the  wings — advance  the  center- 
Engineers  point  well  your  guns — 
Clap  the  matches,  let  the  rent  air, 

Bellow  to  Britannia's  sons." 

II. 

Now  think  you  see,  three  thousand  moving, 

Up  the  brow  of  BUNKERS-HILL, 
Many  a  gallant  vet'ran  shoving, 

Cowards  on  against  their  will. 
The  curling  volumes  all  behind  them, 


270  Representative  Plays 

Dusky  clouds  of  smoke  arise, 
Our  cannon-balls,  brave  boys  shall  find  them, 

At  each  shot  a  hero  dies. 
Once  more  WARREN  midst  this  terror, 

"Charge,  brave  soldiers,  charge  again, 
Many  an  expert  vet' ran  warrior 

Of  the  enemy  is  slain. 
Level  well  your  charged  pieces, 

In  direction  to  the  town; 
They  shake,  they  shake,  their  lightning  ceases, 

That  shot  brought  six  standards  down." 


III. 

Maids  in  virgin  beauty  blooming, 

On  Britannia's  sea-girt  isle, 
Say  no  more  your  swains  are  coming, 

Or  with  songs  the  day  beguile. 
For  sleeping  sound  in  death's  embraces, 

On  their  clay-cold  beds  they  lie, 
Death,  grim  death,  alas  defaces, 

Youth  and  pleasure  which  must  die. 
"March  the  right  wing,  GARD'NER,  yonder, 

Take  th'  assailing  foe  in  flank, 
The  hero's  spirit  lives  in  thunder, 

Close  there,  sergeants,  close  that  rank. 
The  conflict  now  doth  loudly  call  on 

Highest  proof  of  martial  skill, 
Heroes  shall  sing  of  them,  who  fall  on, 
The  slipp'ry  brow  of  BUNKERS-HILL." 


IV. 

Unkindest  fortune,  still  thou  changest, 
As  the  wind  upon  the  wave, 

The  good  and  bad  alike  thou  rangest, 
Undistinguish'd  in  the  grave. 

Shall  kingly  tyrants  see  thee  smiling, 
Whilst  the  brave  and  just  must  die, 

Them  of  sweet  hope  and  life  beguiling 


The  Battle  of  Bunkers-Hill  271 

In  the  arms  of  victory? 
''Behave  this  day,  my  lads,  with  spirit, 

Wrap  the  hill-top  as  in  flame; 
Oh,  if  we  fall,  let  each  one  merit, 

Immortality  in  fame. 
From  this  high  ground  like  Vesuv'us 

Pour  the  floods  of  fire  along; 
Let  not,  let  not,  numbers  move  us, 

We  are  yet  five  hundred  strong." 


V. 


Many  a  widow  sore  bewailing 

Tender  husbands,  shall  remain, 
With  tears  and  sorrows,  unavailing, 

From  this  hour  to  mourn  them  slain. 
The  rude  scene  striking  all  by-standers, 

Bids  the  little  band  retire, 
Who  can  live  like  salamanders, 

In  such  floods  of  liquid  fire? 
"Ah!  Our  troops  are  sorely  pressed, 

HOWE  ascends  the  smoky  hill, 
Wheel  inward,  let  these  ranks  be  faced, 

We  have  yet  some  blood  to  spill. 
Our  right  wing  push'd,  our  left  surrounded, 

Weight  of  numbers  five  to  one, 
WARREN  dead,  and  GARD'NER  wounded, 

Ammunition  is  quite  gone." 


VI. 

See  the  steely  points,  bright  gleaming, 

In  the  sun's  fierce  dazzling  ray, 
Groans  arising,  life-blood  streaming, 

Purple  o'er  the  face  of  day. 
The  field  is  cover'd  with  the  dying, 

Free-men  mixt  with  tyrants  lie, 
The  living  with  each  other  vying, 

Raise  the  shout  of  battle  high. 
Now  brave  PUTNAM,  aged  soldier, 


272  Representative  Plays 

"Come,  my  vet'rans,  we  must  yield; 
More  equal  match'd,  we'll  yet  charge  bolder, 

For  the  present  quit  the  field. 
The  GOD  of  battles  shall  revisit, 

On  their  heads  each  soul  that  dies, 
Take  courage,  boys,  we  yet  sha'n't  miss  it, 

From  a  thousand  victories." 


A  SPEECH 

By  GENERAL  WASHINGTON,  on  his  entering  the  Town  of  Boston, 
at  the  head  of  the  American  Army,  after  the  British  troops  were 
by  his  skilful  approaches  obliged  to  abandon  it. 

Auspicious  day,  of  happiness  unmix'd! 

When  this  fair  City,  without  blood-shed  won, 

Receives  to  her  sweet  bosom,  once  again, 

Her  free-born  sons,  of  perseverance  try'd, 

And  noble  fortitude,  in  deeds  of  arms. 

Now  let  the  father  meet  his  infant  son, 

His  virgin  daughter,  and  long  faithful  spouse, 

And  kiss  away  all  tears,  but  those  of  joy. 

Now,  let  the  ardent  lover  clasp  his  fair, 

New  flush  the  red  rose  in  her  damask  cheek, 

Light  up  the  glad  beam  in  her  rolling  eye, 

And  bid  all  pain  and  sorrowing  be  gone. 

Oh,  happy  day — Shine  on  thou  blissful  sun, 

And  not  one  vapour  blemish  thy  career, 

Till  from  thy  mid-day  champaign,  wheeling  do 

Thou  in  the  western  ocean  go  to  rest. 

O  happy  town — Now  let  thy  buildings  smile, 

Thy  streets  run  down,  with  silver  floods  of  joy, 

And  from  thy  temples,  loudly,  hymn  and  song 

Sweep  the  high  arches  of  resounding  Heaven. 

Yes,  fellow  soldiers,  let  us  bend  to  him 

Who  gave  us  strength,  and  confidence  of  soul, 

To  meet  the  Battle  and  fierce  iron  war, 

Urg'd  on  severe  by  the  tyrannic  foe, 

With  deadly  thunder,  and  mischievous  arms. 

To  him  who  with  his  tempest,  bulg'd  the  deep, 

And  their  full  hundred  war-ships,  on  the  bay, 

Chain'd,  with  his  strong  wind,  to  the  North-east  shore. 

The  hand  of  Heaven,  is  visible  in  this, 

And  we,  O  God,  pour  forth  our  souls  in  praise. 

O  fellow  soldiers,  let  our  off  rings  rise, 


274  Representative  Plays 

Not  in  rich  hecatombs,  of  bulls  and  goats, 
But  in  true  piety,  and  light  of  love, 
And  warm  devotion,  in  the  inward  part. 
Let  your  festivity  be  mix'd  with  thought, 
And  sober  judgment,  on  this  grand  event. 
March  on,  and  take  true  pleasure  to  your  arms, 
You  all  are  bridegrooms,  to  fair  joy  to-day. 


A 
MILITARY    SONG 

by  the 
ARMY  : 

On  GENERAL  WASHINGTON'S  victorious  entry  into 
the  Town  of  Boston. 

I. 

Sons  of  valour,  taste  the  glories, 

Of  Celestial  LIBERTY, 
Sing  a  Triumph  o'er  the  Tories 

Let  the  pulse  of  joy  beat  high. 

II. 

Heaven  this  day  hath  foil'd  the  many 

Fallacies  of  GEORGE  their  King, 
Let  the  echo  reach  Britan'y, 

Bid  her  mountain  summits  ring. 

III. 

See  yon  Navy  swell  the  bosom, 

Of  the  late  enraged  sea, 
Where  e'er  they  go  we  shall  oppose  them, 

Sons  of  valour  must  be  free. 

IV. 

Should  they  touch  at  fair  RHODE-ISLAND, 
There  to  combat  with  the  brave, 

Driven,  from  each  hill,  and  high-land, 
They  shall  plough  the  purple  wave. 

V. 

Should  they  thence,  to  fair  VIRGIN'Y 

Bend  a  squadron  to  DUNMORE, 
Still  with  fear  and  ignominy, 

They  shall  quit  the  hostile  shore. 


276  Representative  Plays 

VI. 
To  CAROLINA  or  to  GEORG'Y, 

Should  they  next  advance  their  fame, 
This  land  of  heroes  shall  disgorge  the 

Sons  of  tyranny  and  shame. 

VII. 

Let  them  rove  to  climes  far  distant, 

Situate  under  Arctic  skies, 
Call  on  Hessian  troops  assistant, 

And  the  Savages  to  rise. 

VIII. 

Boast  of  wild  brigades  from  Russia, 
To  fix  down  the  galling  chain, 

Canada  and  Nova  Scotia, 

Shall  discharge  these  hordes  again. 

IX. 
In  NEW- YORK  State  rejoin'd  by  CLINTON, 

Should  their  standards  mock  the  air, 
Many  a  surgeon  shall  put  lint  on 

Wounds  of  death  received  there. 

X. 

War,  fierce  war,  shall  break  their  forces, 
Nerves  of  tory  men  shall  fail, 

Seeing  HOWE  with  alter'd  courses, 
Bending  to  the  western  gale. 

XI. 

Thus,  from  every  bay  of  ocean, 
Flying  back,  with  sails  unfurl'd, 

Tost  with  ever-troubl'd  motion, 
They  shall  quit  this  smiling  world. 

XII. 

Like  Satan  banished  from  HEAVEN, 
Never  see  the  smiling  shore, 

From  this  land  so  happy,  driven, 
Never  stain  its  bosom  more. 
The  End. 


THE   FALL 

OF 

BRITISH   TYRANNY 
By  JOHN  LEACOCK 


JOHN  LEACOCK 

Among  the  elusive  figures  of  early  American  Drama  stands 
John  Leacock,  author  of  "The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny,"1  pub 
lished  in  1776,  in  Philadelphia.  Even  more  elusive  is  the  identi- 
fication,  inasmuch  as  his  name  has  been  spelled  variously  Lea- 
cock,  Lacock,  and  Laycock.  To  add  to  the  confusion,  Watson's 
"Annals  of  Philadelphia,"  on  the  reminiscent  word  of  an  old 
resident  of  that  town,  declares  that  Joseph  Leacock  penned 
"The  Medley."  2  "He  wrote  also  a  play,  with  good  humour," 
says  this  authority,  "called  'British  Tyranny.'  "  On  careful 
search  of  the  files,  no  definite  information  in  regard  to  Leacock 
has  been  forthcoming.  The  dedication  to  "The  Fall  of  British 
Tyranny"  was  signed  "Dick  Rifle,"  but  'there  is  no  informa 
tion  to  be  traced  from  this  pseudonym. 

Searching  the  Colonial  Records  of  Pennsylvania,  I  discovered 
no  less  than  three  John  Leacocks  mentioned,  all  of  whom  were 
Coroners,  as  well  as  a  Joseph  Leacock,  who  occupied  the  same 
position.  Examining  the  Records  of  the  Pennsylvania  Soldiers 
of  the  Revolution,  I  found  several  John  Leacocks  in  the  ranks 
as  privates,  and  also  one  John  Laycock. 

Professor  Moses  Coit  Tyler,  in  his  "Literary  History  of  the 
American  Revolution"  (ii,  198),  giving  a  list  of  the  characters 
in  the  play  and  the  names  of  those  supposed  to  be  lampooned, 
analyzes  the  piece  thoroughly,  and  says,  "From  internal  evi 
dence,  it  must  be  inferred  that  the  writing  of  the  play  was  fin 
ished  after  the  publication  of  'Common  Sense'  in  January,  1776, 
and  before  the  news  had  reached  Philadelphia  of  the  evacuation 
of  Boston,  March  17,  1776."  Though  Sabin  takes  for  granted 
that  Leacock  wrote  "The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny,"  Hildeburn, 
in  the  "Issues  of  the  Press"  (ii,  249),  states  that  it  is  "said  to  have 

1  The    Fall/of/British    Tyranny  ;/or,/American    Liberty/Triumphant. /The    First 
Campaign. /A  Tragi-Comedy  of  Five  Acts, /as  Lately  Planned/at  the  Royal  Theatrum 
Pandemonium,/at  St.  James's./The  Principal  Place  of  Action  in  America./Pub- 
lish'd  According  to  Act  of  Parliament. /Quis  furor  6  civesl   quae  tanta  licentia  ferri?/ 
Lucan.  lib.  I.  ver.  8. /What  blind,  detested  madness  could  afford/Such  horrid  licence 
to  the  murd'ring  sword?/Rowe./Philadelphia:/Printed  byStyner  and  Cist,  in  Second- 
street./near  Arch-street.  M  DCC  LXXVI. 

2  "The  Medley;    or.  Harlequin  Have  At  Ye  All."     A  pantomime  produced  at 
Covent  Garden,  and  published  in  1778. 


280  Representative  Plays 

been  written  by  Mr.  Laycock  of  Philadelphia."'  If  the  John 
Leacock,  whose  name  appears  in  the  Philadelphia  Directory  of 
1802,  is  the  one  who  wrote  "The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny,"  fol 
lowing  that  clue  we  find  his  name  disappearing  from  the  Direc 
tory  in  1804.  Hence,  he  must  either  have  died,  or  have  moved 
away  from  Philadelphia. 

The  elusive  name  of  Leacock  is  to  be  considered  also  in  con 
nection  with  an  opera  entitled,  "The  Disappointment;  or,  The 
Force  of  Credulity,"  signed  by  Andrew  Barton,1  supposed  to  be 
a  pseudonym,  and  attributed  variously  to  "Colonel"  Thomas 
Forrest  and  to  John  Leacock.  I  already  have  had  occasion  to 
mention  "The  Disappointment"  in  connection  with  Godfrey's 
"The  Prince  of  Parthia."  The  reader  will  remember  that  in 
1767  "The  Disappointment"  was  put  into  rehearsal,  but  was 
suddenly  withdrawn  in  preference  to  Godfrey's  piece.  This 
play  has  been  fully  and  interestingly  analyzed  by  O.  G.  Sonneck, 
who  gives  the  reasons  for  the  withdrawal  of  the  play  from 
rehearsal  by  the  American  Company  of  Philadelphia,  1767. 
These  reasons  are  definitely  stated  in  the  Pennsylvania  Gazette 
for  April  16,  1767,  which  contains  this  warning  in  the  American 
Company's  advertisement  of  "The  Mourning  Bride" :  "N.B.  'The 
Disappointment'  (that  was  advertised  for  Monday),  as  it  con 
tains  personal  Reflections,  is  unfit  for  the  Stage." 

The  reason  why  this  piece  is  attributed  to  "Colonel"  Thomas 
Forrest  is  that  there  is  a  memorandum  in  substantiation  on  the 
title-page  of  a  copy  owned  by  the  Library  Company  of  Phila 
delphia. 

Mr.  Sonneck  gives  further  and  more  extensive  treatment  of 
the  subject  in  his  excellent  book  on  "Early  Opera  in  America," 
(Schirmer,  1915)  as  well  as  in  "Sammelbande  der  Internationale 
Musik  Gesellschaft,"  for  1914-1915. 

We  mention  the  matter  here,  because,  although  Sonneck  enters 
into  a  long  discussion  of  the  life  of  Forrest,  he  fails  to  give  any 
satisfactory  account  of  John  Leacock.  In  fact,  he  says  in 
closing,  "If  Andrew  Barton,  Esq.,  is  to  be  a  pseudonym,  it  seems 
to  me  that  John  Leacock,  claimed  (by  Mr.  Hildeburn)  to  have 

1  From  Sabin,  I  take  the  following: 

BARTON  (A.)  "The  Disappointment;  or,  The  Force  of  Credulity."  A  new  Ameri 
can  Comic  Opera,  of  two  Acts.  By  Andrew  Barton,  Esq.  [Motto.]  New  York, 
Printed  in  the  year  M,  DCC,  LXVIII.  8vo,  pp.  v.,  58.  P.  t.  Second  edition,  revised 
and  corrected,  with  large  additions,  by  the  Author.  Philadelphia,  Francis  Shallus, 
1796.  12  mo.  pp.  iv.,  94,  p.  3801.  [Sabin  also  notes  that  the  Philadelphia  Library 
copy  is  very  rare,  with  MS  Key  to  the  characters,  who  were  Philadelphians.  Air 
No.  iv  is  Yankee  Doodle  (1767).] 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  281 

written  the  tragi-comedy  of  'The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny,' 
should  not  be  cast  aside  so  cheerfully  in  favour  of  Thomas  Forrest. ' ' 

Seilhamer  and  Durang,  referring  to  the  matter,  mention 
Joseph  Leacock  as  a  claimant  for  the  authorship  of  "The  Dis 
appointment,"  and  say  that  he  was  a  jeweler  and  a  silversmith 
in  Philadelphia;  they  also  mention  John  Leacock,  the  Coroner. 
Durang,  in  the  "History  of  the  Philadelphia  Stage,"  throws  all 
weight  in  favour  of  Thomas  Forrest.  Sonneck  says  further, 
regarding  the  matter, — "We  may  dispose  of  Joseph  by  saying 
that  he  seems  to  have  been  among  the  dead  when,  in  1796,  the 
second  edition  of  'The  Disappointment,'  revised  and  corrected 
by  the  author,  was  issued.  On  the  other  hand,  Coroner  John 
Leacock  figures  in  the  Philadelphia  Directories  even  later." 

So  the  matter  stands.  The  play,  however,  is  a  very  definite 
contribution,  illustrating  how  quickly  the  American  spirit 
changed  in  the*  days  preceding  the  Revolution.  Imagine,  in 
1762,  the  students  of  the  College  of  New  Jersey  giving  a  piece 
entitled  "The  Military  Glory  of  Great  Britain;"1  and  so  short 
a  time  afterwards,  only  fourteen  years,  in  fact,  a  piece  with  the 
title,  "The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny,"  being  greeted  by  the 
theatre-going  public!  Leacock's  attempt  may  be  taken  as  the 
first  example  that  we  have  of  an  American  chronicle  play.  And 
it  is  likewise  significant  as  being  the  first  literary  piece  in  which 
George  Washington  appears  as  a  character.  In  the  advertise 
ment,  the  play  is  thus  described  (see  Ford) : 

"A  plea.sing  scene  between  Roger  and  Dick,  two  shepherds 
near  Lexington. 

"Clarissa,  etc.  A  very  moving  scene  on  the  death  of  Dr.  War 
ren,  etc.,  in  a  chamber  near  Boston,  the  morning  after  the  battle 
of  Bunker's  Hill. 

"A  humorous  scene  between  the  Boatswain  and  a  Sailor  on 
board  a  man-of-war,  near  Norfolk  in  Virginia. 

"Two  very  laughable  scenes  between  the  Boatswain,  two 
Sailors  and  the  Cook,  exhibiting  specimens  of  seafaring  oratory, 
and  peculiar  eloquence  of  those  sons  of  Neptune,  touching 
Tories,  Convicts,  and  Black  Regulars:  and  between  Lord  Kid 
napper  and  the  Boatswain. 

1  The  Title-page  runs  as  follows : 

The/Military  Glory/of/Great-Britain,/an/Entertainment,/given  by  the  l?te  Can 
didates  for/ Bachelor's  Degree, /At  the  close  of  the/Anniversary  Commencement, 
held/in/Nassau-Hall/New-Jersey/September  2Qth,  i762./Philadelphia:/Printed  by 
William  Bradford,  M,  DCC,  LXII. 


282  Representative  Plays 

"A  very  black  scene  between  Lord  Kidnapper  and  Major 
Cudjo. 

"A  religious  scene  between  Lord  Kidnapper,  Chaplain,  and 
the  Captain. 

"A  scene,  the  Lord  Mayor,  etc.,  going  to  St.  James's  with  the 
address. 

"A  droll  scene,  a  council  of  war  in  Boston,  Admiral  Tombstone, 
Elbow  Room,  Mr.  Caper,  General  Clinton  and  Earl  Piercy. 

"A  diverting  scene  between  a  Whig  and  a  Tory. 

"A  spirited  scene  between  General  Prescott  and  Colonel  Allen. 

"A  shocking  scene,  a  dungeon,  between  Colonel  Allen  and  an 
officer  of  the  guard. 

"Two  affecting  scenes  in  Boston  after  the  flight  of  the  regu 
lars  from  Lexington,  between  Lord  Boston,  messenger  and 
officers  of  the  guard. 

"A  patriotic  scene  in  the  camp  at  Cambridge,  between  the 
Generals  Washington,  Lee,  and  Putnam,  etc.,  etc." 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  in  the  Abbe  Robin's  discerning 
remarks,  concerning  the  effect  of  drama  on  the  pupils  of  Harvard 
in  1781,  and  on  the  general  appeal  of  drama  among  the  Ameri 
can  Patriots,  he  mentions  "The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny"  with 
out  giving  the  author's  name. 


THE       FALL 

O   F 

BRITISH  TYRANNY 

O    R, 

AMERICAN     LIBERTY 

TRIUMPHANT. 
THE.  FIRST    CAMPAIGN. 

A  TRAGI-COMEDrov  FIVE  ACTS, 

AS    LATELY    PLANNED 

AT  THE  ROYAL  THEATR.UM  PANDEMONIUM, 
AT  ST.  JAMES'S. 

THE  PRINCIPAL  PLACE  OF  ACTION  IM  AMERICA. 
PUBLISHED.  ACCORDING  TO  ACT  Or   PARLIAMENT. 


Quis  furor  6  civcs !  quae  tanta  licentia 

LUCAN.  lib.  I.  ver.  8« 

What  Hind,  teefitd  madneft  wdd  afford 
Stub  horrid  licence  to  tbe  aturd'ring  /wor^f 

Rows. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PRINTED  svSTYNER  AMD  CIST,  IN  SECOND-STREET- 
NEAR  ARCH«STREET.    M  DCC  LXXVI. 


FAC-SIMILE  TITLE-PAGE  OF  THE  FIRST  EDITION 


THE  DEDICATION 

To  Lord  Boston,  Lord  Kidnapper,  and  the  innumerable  and 
never-ending  Clan  of  Macs  and  Donalds  upon  Donalds,  and 
the  Remnant  of  the  Gentlemen  Officers,  Actors,  Merry 
Andrews,  strolling  Players,  Pirates,  and  Buccaneers  in 
America. 

My  Lords  and  Gentlemen: 

Understanding  you  are  vastly  fond  of  plays  and  farces,  and 
frequently  exhibit  them  for  your  own  amusement,  and  the  laudable 
purpose  of  ridiculing  your  masters  (the  YANKEES,  as  you  call 
'em],  it  was  expected  you  would  have  been  polite  enough  to  have 
favoured  the  world,  or  America  at  least  (at  whose  expense  you  act 
them),  with  some  of  your  play-bills,  or  with  a  sample  of  your  com 
position. 

I  shall,  however,  not  copy  your  churlishness,  but  dedicate  the 
following  Tragi-  Comedy  to  your  patronage,  and  for  your  future 
entertainment;  and  as  the  most  of  you  have  already  acted  your 
particular  parts  of  it,  both  comic  and  tragic,  in  reality  at  Lexington, 
Bunker' s-Hill,  the  Great-Bridge,  &c.,  &c.,  &c.,  to  the  very  great 
applause  of  yourselves,  tho'  not  of  the  whole  house,  no  doubt  you  will 
preserve  the  marks,  or  memory  of  it,  as  long  as  you  live,  as  it  is 
wrote  in  capital  American  characters  and  letters  of  blood  on  your 
posteriors:  And  however  some  Whigs  may  censure  you  for  your 
affected  mirth  (as  they  term  it,  in  the  deplorable  situation  you  are 
now  in,  like  hogs  in  a  pen,  and  in  want  of  elbow  room),  yet  I  can 
by  no  means  agree  with  them,  but  think  it  a  proof  of  true  heroism 
and  philosophy,  to  endeavour  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain,  and 
laugh  at  yourselves,  to  prevent  others  from  laughing  at  you;  and 
tho1  you  are  deprived  of  the  use  of  your  teeth,  it  is  no  reason  you 
should  be  bereaved  of  the  use  of  your  tongues,  your  eyes,  your  ears, 
and  your  risible  faculties  and  powers.  That  would  be  cruel  indeed! 
after  the  glorious  and  fatiguing  campaign  you  have  made,  and  the 
many  signal  victories  obtained  over  whole  herds  of  cattle  and  swine, 
routing  flocks  of  sheep,  lambs  and  geese,  storming  hen-roosts,  and 
taking  them  prisoners,  and  thereby  raising  the  glory  of  Old  England 


286  Representative  Plays 

to  a  pitch  she  never  knew  before.  And  ye  Macs,  and  ye  Donalds 
upon  Donalds,  go  on,  and  may  our  gallows-hills  and  liberty  poles 
be  honoured  and  adorn'd  with  some  of  your  heads:  Why  should 
Tyburn  and  Temple-bar  make  a  monopoly  of  so  valuable  a  com 
modity? 

Wishing  you  abundance  of  entertainment  in  the  re-acting  this 
Tragi- Comedy,  and  of  which  I  should  be  proud  to  take  a  part  with 
you,  the?  I  have  reason  to  think  you  would  not  of  choice  let  me  come 
within  three  hundred  yards  of  your  stage,  lest  I  should  rob  you  of 
your  laurels,  receive  the  clap  of  the  whole  house,  and  pass  for  a 
second  Garrick  among  you,  as  you  know  I  always  act  with  applause, 
speak  bold — point  blank — off  hand — and  without  prompter. 

I  am,  My  Lords  and  Gentlemen  Buffoons, 

Your  always  ready  humble  servant, 

DICK  RIFLE. 


THE  PREFACE 

Solomon  said,  "Oppression  makes  a  wise  man  mad:"  but 
what  would  he  have  said,  had  he  lived  in  these  days,  and 
seen  the  oppression  of  the  people  of  Boston,  and  the  distressed 
situation  of  the  inhabitants  of  Charlestown,  Falmouth,  Ston- 
nington,  Bristol,  Norfolk,  &c.?  Would  he  not  have  said,  "The 
tongue  of  the  sucking  child  cleaveth  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth  for 
thirst;  the  young  children  ask  for  bread,  but  no  man  breaketh 
it  unto  them?"  "They  that  did  feed  delicately,  perish  in  the 
streets;  they  that  were  brought  up  in  scarlet,  embrace  the 
dung."  What  would  he  have  said  of  rejected  petitions,  disre 
garded  supplications,  and  contemned  remonstrances?  Would 
he  not  have  said,  "From  hardness  of  heart,  good  Lord,  deliver 
us?"  What  would  he  have  said  of  a  freeborn  people  butchered — 
their  towns  desolated,  and  become  an  heap  of  ashes — their 
inhabitants  become  beggars,  wanderers  and  vagabonds — by  the 
cruel  orders  of  an  unrelenting  tyrant,  wallowing  in  luxury,  and 
wantonly  wasting  the  people's  wealth,  to  oppress  them  the  more? 
Would  he  not  have  said,  it  was  oppression  and  ingratitude  in  the 
highest  degree,  exceeding  the  oppression  of  the  children  of  Israel? 
and,  like  Moses,  have  cried  out,  let  the  people  go?  Would  he 
not  have  wondered  at  our  patience  and  long-suffering,  and  have 
said,  "  'Tis  time  to  change  our  master! — 'Tis  time  to  part!" — And 
had  he  been  an  American  born,  would  he  not  have  shewed  his 
wisdom  by  adopting  the  language  of  independency?  Happy 
then  for  America  in  these  fluctuating  times,  she  is  not  without 
her  Solomons,  who  see  the  necessity  of  heark'ning  to  reason,  and 
listening  to  the  voice  of  COMMON  SENSE. 


THE  GODDESS  OF  LIBERTY 

Hail!  Patriots,1  hail!  by  me  inspired  be! 

Speak  boldly,  think  and  act  for  Liberty, 

United  sons,  America's  choice  band, 

Ye  Patriots  firm,  ye  sav'ours  of  the  land. 

Hail !  Patriots,  hail !  rise  with  the  rising  sun, 

Nor  quit  your  labour,  till  the  work  is  done. 

Ye  early  risers  in  your  country's  cause, 

Shine  forth  at  noon,  for  Liberty  and  Laws. 

Build  a  strong  tow'r,  whose  fabric  may  endure 

Firm  as  a  rock,  from  tyranny  secure. 

Yet  would  you  build  my  fabric  to  endure, 

Be  your  hearts  warm — but  let  your  hands  be  pure. 

Never  to  shine,  yourselves,  your  country  sell ; 

But  think  you  nobly,  while  in  place  act  well. 

Let  no  self-server  general  trust  betray, 

No  picque,  no  party,  bar  the  public  way. 

Front  an  arm'd  world,  with  union  on  your  side: 

No  foe  shall  shake  you — if  no  friends  divide. 

At  night  repose,  and  sweetly  take  your  rest; 

None  sleeps  so  sound  as  those  by  conscience  blest; 

May  martyr'd  patriots  whisper  in  your  ear, 

To  tread  the  paths  of  virtue  without  fear; 

May  pleasing  visions  charm  your  patriot  eyes; 

While  Freedom's  sons  shall  hail  you  blest  and  wise, 

Hail!  my  last  hope,  she  cries,  inspired  by  me, 

Wish,  talk,  write,  fight,  and  die— for  LIBERTY. 

1  The  Congress 


THE  PROLOGUE 

Spoken  by  Mr.  Peter  Buckstail. 

Since  'tis  the  fashion,  preface,  prologue  next, 

Else  what's  a  play? — like  sermon  without  text! 

Since  'tis  the  fashion  then,  I'll  not  oppose; 

For  what's  a  man  if  he's  without  a  nose? 

The  curtain's  up — the  music's  now  begun, 

What  is  't? — Why  murder,  fire,  and  sword,  and  gun. 

What  scene?— Why  blood!— What  act?— Fight  and  be  free! 

Or  be  ye  slaves — and  give  up  liberty! 

Blest  Continent,  while  groaning  nations  round 

Bend  to  the  servile  yoke,  ignobly  bound, 

May  ye  be  free — nor  ever  be  opprest 

By  murd'ring  tyrants,  but  a  land  of  rest! 

What  say  ye  to  't?   what  says  the  audience? 

Methinks  I  hear  some  whisper  COMMON  SENSE. 

Hark!  what  say  them  Tories? — Silence — let  'em  speak, 

Poor  fools!  dumb — they  hav'n't  spoke  a  word  this  week, 

Dumb  let  'em  be,  at  full  end  of  their  tethers, 

'Twill  save  the  expense  of  tar  and  of  feathers: 

Since  old  Pluto's  lurch'd  'em,  and  swears  he  does  not  know 

If  more  these  Tory  puppy  curs  will  bark  or  no. 

Now  ring  the  bell — Come  forth,  ye  actors,  come, 

The  Tragedy's  begun,  beat,  beat  the  drum, 

Let's  all  advance,  equipt  like  volunteers, 

Oppose  the  foe,  and  banish  all  our  fears. 

We  will  be  free — or  bravely  we  will  die,  1 

And  leave  to  Tories  tyrants'  legacy,         \ 

And  all  our  share  of  its  dependency.       J 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

LORD  PARAMOUNT,  Mr.  Bute. 

LORD  MOCKLAW,  Mr.  Mansfield. 

LORD  HYPOCRITE,  Mr.  Dartmouth. 

LORD  POLTRON,  Mr.  Sandwich. 

LORD  CATSPAW,  Mr.  North. 

LORD  WISDOM,  Mr.  Chatham. 

LORD  RELIGION,  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph. 

LORD  JUSTICE,  Mr.  Camden. 

LORD  PATRIOT,  Mr.  Wilkes. 

BOLD  IRISHMAN,  Mr.  Burke. 

JUDAS  Mr.  Hutchinson. 

CHARLEY,  Mr.  Jenkinson. 

BRAZEN,  Mr.  Wedderburne. 

COLONEL,  Mr.  Barre. 

LORD  BOSTON,  Mr.  Gage. 

ADMIRAL  TOMBSTONE,  Mr.  Graves. 

ELBOW  RooM,1  Mr.  Howe. 

MR.  CAPER,  Mr.  Burgoyne. 

LORD  KIDNAPPER,  Mr.  Dunmore. 
GENERAL  WASHINGTON. 
GENERAL  LEE. 
GENERAL  PUTNAM. 

Officers,  Soldiers,  Sailors,  Citizens,  Negroes,  &c.,  &c.,  &c. 

1  It  seems  to  be  generally  thought  that  the  expression  of  "Elbow  Room"  is  to  be 
attributed  to  General  Howe,  and  not  to  General  Burgoyne. 


THE    FALL 

OF 
BRITISH     TYRANNY,    &c. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  At  St.  James's. 

LORD  PARAMOUNT  [solus,  strutting  about]. 

Many  long  years  have  rolled  delightfully  on,  whilst  I  have 
been  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  grandeur  and  power,  whilst 
I  have  imperceptibly  (tho'  not  unsuspected)  guided  the  chariot 
of  state,  and  greased  with  the  nation's  gold  the  imperial  wheels. 

'Tis  I  that  move  the  mighty  engine  of  royalty,  and  with  the 
tincture  of  my  somniferous  opiate  or  (in  the  language  of  a 
courtier)  by  the  virtue  of  my  secret  influence,  I  have  lulled  the 
axletree  to  sleep,  and  brought  on  a  pleasing  insensibility. 

Let  their  champion,  Lord  Wisdom,  groan,  he  is  now  become 
feeble  and  impotent,  a  mere  cripple  in  politics ;  their  Lord  Patri 
ot's  squint  has  lost  its  basilisk  effect:  and  the  bold  Irishman  may 
bellow  the  Keenew  till  he's  hoarse,  he's  no  more  when  compar'd 
to  me  than  an  Irish  salmon  to  a  Scotch  herring:  I  care  not  a 
bawbee  for  them  all.  I'll  reign  in  Britain,  I'll  be  king  of  their 
counsels,  and  chief  among  the  princes. 

Oh!  ambition,  thou  darling  of  my  soul!  stop  not  till  I  rise 
superior  to  all  superlative,  till  I  mount  triumphantly  the  pin 
nacle  of  glory,  or  at  least  open  the  way  for  one  of  my  own  family 
and  name  to  enter  without  opposition. 

The  work  is  now  cut  out,  and  must  be  finish'd,  I  have  ventur'd 
too  far  to  recede,  my  honour's  at  stake,  my  importance,  nay  my 
life,  depends  upon  it! 

Last  night's  three  hours'  closeting  has  effectually  done  the 
business;  then  I  spoke  my  mind  in  such  terms  as  to  make  a  last 
ing  impression,  never  to  be  eradicated — all — all  was  given  up 


292  Representative  Plays 

to  me,  and  now  since  I  hold  the  reins  of  government,  since  I  am 
possessed  of  supreme  power,  every  thing  shall  be  subservient 
to  my  royal  will  and  pleasure. 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  MOCKLAW. 

MOCKLAW.  I  am  your  Lordship's  most  obedient  humble 
servant. 

PARAMOUNT.  Be  seated, — I  sent  for  you  to  have  a  small  con 
ference  with  you — and  to  let  you  know,  your  advice  respecting 
certain  points  of  law,  I  have  found  succeeded  to  admiration; 
even  beyond  my  most  sanguine  expectations. 

MOCKLAW.  I  am  heartily  glad  of  it,  altho*  the  advice  I  gave 
your  Lordship,  I  cannot  say,  was  law;  yet,  your  Lordship  can 
easily  pass  it  as  such  by  a  royal  proclamation:  and  should  it  ever 
be  disputed,  I  have  quirks  and  quibbles  enough  at  your  service, 
with  Mr.  Brazen  and  Mr.  Attorney-General's  assistance,  to 
render  it  so  doubtful,  obscure  and  ambiguous,  as  to  puzzle  Lord 
Justice,  perplex  Dunning,  and  confound  Glynn. 

PARAMOUNT.  Can  you  show  me  an  instance  of  a  royal  procla 
mation  passing  for  a  law?  or  advise  me  how  to  make  it  such,  if 
you  can,  I  shall  make  it  well  worth  your  study. 

MOCKLAW.  My  Lord,  as  you  have  now  got  a  parliament  ex 
actly  to  your  mind,  ev'ry  thing  you  propose  will  be  granted;  but 
in  order  that  you  may  see  precedents  are  not  wanting — there  is 
a  statute  in  the  reign  of  Henry  the  8th  that  expressly  shews 
the  then  parliament  passed  a  law  that  the  king's  proclamation 
should  be  the  law  of  the  land — 

PARAMOUNT.  Are  you  sure  of  that? 

MOCKLAW.  My  Lord,  here  it  is — this  is  real  law:  Luce  meri- 
diana  clariora.  When  we  find  any  thing  of  this  kind,  ready  made 
to  our  hands,  it's  a  treasure  we  should  never  part  with. 

[PARAMOUNT  reads. 

PARAMOUNT.  I  see  it  plain !  this,  this  alone  is  worth  a  ton  of 
gold. — Now,  by  St.  Andrew!  I'll  strike  a  stroke  that  shall  sur 
prise  all  Europe,  and  make  the  boldest  of  the  adverse  party  turn 
pale  and  tremble  — Scotch  politics,  Scotch  intrigues,  Scotch  in 
fluence,  and  Scotch  impudence  (as  they  have  termed  it),  they 
shall  see  ere  long  shine  with  unheard  of  splendour,  and  the  name 
of  Lord  Paramount  the  mighty,  shall  blaze  in  the  annals  of 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  293 

the  world  with  far  greater  lustre  (as  a  consummate  politician) 
than  the  name  of  Alexander  the  Great,  as  an  hero! 

MOCKLAW.  That  day  I  much  wish  for, — but,  with  your  Lord 
ship's  permission,  I  would  just  mention,  that  secrecy  and  dis 
simulation  are  the  soul  of  enterprise;  your  Lordship  hath  many 
enemies,  who  watch  ev'ry  movement  of  state  with  a  jealous  and 
wary  eye. 

PARAMOUNT.  I  know  it,  but  the  futile  attempts  of  my  timid 
adversaries  have  hitherto  proved  abortive — so  far  I  have  borne 
down  all  opposition,  and  those  (even  some  of  the  greatest  of 
them)  who  not  long  since  were  my  most  open,  as  well  as  secret 
enemies,  I  now  behold  with  the  most  princely  pleasure,  the 
earliest  to  attend,  to  congratulate  me  on  my  birthday,  tho' 
uninvited,  bow  down,  and  make  the  most  submissive  congees. 
Have  you  not  seen  this,  Mocklaw?  and  how  I  keep  them  in  ex 
pectation  of  something,  by  now  and  then  bestowing  part  of  a 
gracious  smile  amongst  a  dozen  of  them? 

MOCKLAW.  I  have,  my  Lord,  and  no  doubt  they  interpret  that 
as  a  favourable  omen; — however,  policy,  my  Lord,  would  dictate 
that  to  you,  if  there  were  no  other  consideration. 

PARAMOUNT.  True,  and  yet  they  are  cursedly  mistaken — and 
now,  Mocklaw,  as  I  have  ever  found  you  to  be  well  dispos'd 
towards  me,  and  the  cause  I  espouse,  and  as  I  trust  you  con 
tinue  satisfy'd  with  my  former  bounty,  and  my  promise  now  of 
granting  you  a  pension  for  life,  with  liberty  to  retire,  I  shall 
make  you  my  confident,  and  disclose  to  you  a  secret  no  man 
except  myself  yet  knows,  which  I  expect  you  have  so  much 
honour  to  let  it  remain  a  secret  to  all  the  world  (I  mean  as  to 
the  main  point  I  have  in  view). 

MOCKLAW.  Depend  upon  it,  my  Lord,  I  am  sincerely  devoted 
to  your  Lordship,  command  me,  I  care  not  what  it  is,  I'll  screw, 
twist  and  strain  the  law  as  tight  as  a  drumhead,  to  serve 
you. 

PARAMOUNT.  I  shall  at  this  time  but  just  give  you  a  hint  of 
the  plan  I've  drawn  up  in  my  own  mind.  You  must  have  per 
ceived  in  me  a  secret  hankering  for  majesty  for  some  time  past, 
notwithstanding  my  age; — but  as  I  have  considered  the  great 
dislike  the  nation  in  general  have,  as  to  my  person,  I'll  wave  my 
own  pretensions,  and  bend  my  power  and  assiduity  to  it  in 
favour  of  one,  the  nearest  a  kin  to  me,  you  know  who  I  mean, 
and  a  particular  friend  of  yours,  provided  I  continue  to  be  dictator, 


294  Representative  Plays 

as  at  present;  and  further,  I  intend  America  shall  submit. — 
What  think  you  of  it  so  far? 

MOCKLAW.  A  day  I've  long  wish'd  to  see!  but  you  stagger 
me,  my  Lord,  not  as  to  my  honour,  secrecy,  or  resolution  to 
serve  you,  but  as  to  the  accomplishment  of  such  grand  designs. 

PARAMOUNT.  Tis  true,  I  have  undertaken  a  mighty  task,  a 
task  that  would  have  perplexed  the  Council  of  Nice,  and  stag- 
ger'd  even  Julius  Caesar — but — 

MOCKLAW.  You  have  need,  my  Lord,  of  all  your  wisdom, 
fortitude  and  power,  when  you  consider  with  whom  you  have 
to  contend — Let  me  see — Lord  Wisdom — Lord  Religion — Lord 
Justice — Lord  Patriot — the  bold  Irishman,  &c.,  &c.,  &c.,  and 
the  wisdom  of  the  United  Colonies  of  America  in  Congress  to 
cope  with;  as  individuals  they  are  trifling,  but  in  league  com 
bined  may  become  potent  enemies. 

PARAMOUNT.  Granted — But  are  you  so  little  of  a  lawyer  as  not 
to  know  the  virtue  of  a  certain  specific  I'm  possess'dof,  that  will 
accomplish  any  thing,  even  to  performing  miracles?  Don't  you 
know  there's  such  sweet  music  in  the  shaking  of  the  treasury  keys, 
that  they  will  instantly  lock  the  most  babbling  patriot's  tongue? 
transform  a  Tory  into  a  Whig,  and  a  Whig  into  a  Tory?  make  a 
superannuated  old  miser  dance,  and  an  old  Cynic  philosopher 
smile.  How  many  thousand  times  has  your  tongue  danc'd  at 
Westminster  Hall  to  the  sound  of  such  music? 

MOCKLAW.  Enchanting  sounds,  powerful  magic,  there's  no 
withstanding  the  charms  of  such  music,  their  potency  and  in 
fluence  are  irresistible — that  is  a  point  of  law  I  can  by  no  means 
give  up,  of  more  force  than  all  the  acts  of  parliament  since 
the  days  of  King  Alfred. 

PARAMOUNT.  I'm  glad  you  acknowledge  that — Now  then  for 
a  line  of  politics — I  propose  to  begin  first  by  taxing  America,  as  a 
blind — that  will  create  an  eternal  animosity  between  us,  and  by 
sending  over  continually  ships  and  troops,  this  will,  of  course,  pro 
duce  a  civil  war — weaken  Britain  by  leaving  her  coasts  defense 
less,  and  impoverish  America;  so  that  we  need  not  fear  any  thing 
from  that  quarter.  Then  the  united  fleets  of  France  and  Spain 
with  troops  to  appear  in  the  channel,  and  make  a  descent,  while 
my  kinsman  with  thirty  thousand  men  lands  in  Scotland,  marches 
to  London,  and  joins  the  others:  What  then  can  prevent  the 
scheme  from  having  the  wish'd  for  effect?  This  is  the  main 
point,  which  keep  to  yourself. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  295 

MOCKLAW.  If  it  has  failed  heretofore,  'tis  impossible  it  should 
fail  now;  nothing  within  the  reach  of  human  ^wisdom  was  ever 
planned  so  judiciously;  had  Solomon  been  alive,  and  a  politician,  I 
would  have  sworn  your  Lordship  had  consulted  him. — But  I  would 
beg  leave  to  hint  to  your  Lordship  the  opposition  to  be  appre 
hended  from  the  militia  of  England,  and  the  German  forces  that 
may  be  sent  for  according  to  treaty. 

PARAMOUNT.  As  to  the  militia,  they  are  half  of  them  my 
friends,  witness  Lancaster,  Manchester,  Liverpool,  &c.,&c.,&c., 
the  other  half  scarce  ever  fired  a  gun  in  their  lives,  especially 
those  of  London;  and  I  shall  take  care  by  shaking  the  keys  a 
little  to  have  such  officers  appointed  over  them,  who  are  well 
known  to  be  in  my  interest.  As  to  the  German  forces,  I  have 
nothing  to  apprehend  from  them;  the  parliament  can  soon 
pass  an  act  against  the  introduction  of  foreign  troops,  except 
the  French  or  Spaniards,  who  can't  be  called  foreign,  they  are 
our  friends  and  nearest  neighbours.  Have  you  any  thing 
further  to  object  against  the  probability  of  this  plan? 

MOCKLAW.  Nothing,  my  Lord,  but  the  people  of  Ireland,  who 
must  be  cajoled  or  humbugg'd. 

PARAMOUNT.  As  to  that,  let  me  alone,  I  shall  grant  the  Roman 
Catholics,  who  are  by  far  the  most  numerous,  the  free  exercise 
of  their  religion,  with  the  liberty  of  bearing  arms,  so  long  un 
justly  deprived  of,  and  disarm  in  due  time  all  the  Protestants  in 
their  turn. 

MOCKLAW.  That  will  be  a  noble  stroke,  the  more  I  consider 
it,  the  more  I'm  surpris'd  at  your  Lordship's  profound  wisdom 
and  foresight:  I  think  success  is  certain. 

PARAMOUNT.  Then  this  is  the  favourable  crisis  to  attempt  it; 
'tis  not  the  thought  of  a  day,  a  month,  or  a  year.  Have  you 
any  more  objections? 

MOCKLAW.    I  have  one  more,  my  Lord — 

PARAMOUNT.  Well,  pray  let's  hear  it;  these  lawyers  will  be 
heard. 

MOCKLAW.  The  Bishops  and  Clergy  are  a  powerful,  numerous 
body;  it  would  be  necessary,  my  Lord,  to  gain  them  over,  or 
keep  them  silent — A  religious  war  is  the  worst  of  wars. 

PARAMOUNT.  You  are  very  right,  I  have  'em  fast  enough — 
Mammon  will  work  powerfully  on  them — The  keys — the  keys — 
His  Grace  my  Lord  of  Suffolk  is  managing  this  business  for  me, 
and  feeding  them  with  the  hopes  of  being  all  created  Archbishops 


296  Representative  Plays 

here,  and  each  to  have  a  diocese,  and  Bishops  of  their  own 
appointment  in  America;  not  a  city  or  town  there  but  must  be 
provided  with  a  Bishop :  There  let  religion  erect  her  holy  altars, 
by  which  means  their  revenues  will  be  augmented  beyond  that 
of  a  Cardinal.  All  this  we  must  make  'em  believe. 

MOCKLAW.  True,  my  Lord,  what  is  a  Bishop  without  faith? 
This  is  the  grandest  stroke  of  religious  circumvention  that  ever 
was  struck. — I've  done,  my  Lord. 

PARAMOUNT.  Very  well,  you'll  not  fail  to  meet  the  privy  council 
here  this  evening;  in  the  mean  time  you'll  go  and  search  the 
statutes  for  other  precedents  to  strengthen  the  cause;  and  re 
member  I  have  enjoin'd  you  to  secrecy. 

MOCKLAW.  Depend  upon  it,  my  Lord,  I  cannot  prove  un 
grateful  to  your  Lordship,  nor  such  an  enemy  to  myself. 

[Exit  MOCKLAW. 

SCENE  III.  LORD  PARAMOUNT  [solus]. 

This  Mocklaw  is  a  cursed  knowing  dog,  and  I  believe  the  father 
of  Brazen ;  how  readily  he  found  an  old  act  of  parliament  to  my 
purpose,  as  soon  as  I  told  him  I  would  make  it  worth  his  study; 
and  the  thoughts  of  a  pension  will  make  him  search  his  old 
worm-eaten  statute  books  from  the  reign  of  King  Arthur  down 
to  this  present  time;  how  he  raises  objections  too  to  make  me 
think  his  mind  is  ever  bent  on  study  to  serve  me.  The  shaking 
of  the  treasury  keys  is  a  fine  bait.  [Rings  the  bell.]  Charters, 
magna  chartas,  bill  of  rights,  acts  of  assembly,  resolves  of  con 
gresses,  trials  by  juries  (and  acts  of  parliament  too)  when  they 
make  against  us,  must  all  be  annihilated;  a  suspending  power  I 
approve  of,  and  of  royal  proclamations.  [Enter  CHARLEY. 

CHARLEY.   I  wait  your  Lordship's  orders. 

PARAMOUNT.  Write  a  number  of  cards,  and  see  that  the  Lords 
of  the  privy  council,  and  Mr.  Judas,  be  summoned  to  give  their 
attendance  this  evening  at  six  o'clock,  at  my  Pandemonium. 

CHARLEY.   I'm  gone,  my  Lord.  [Exit  CHARLEY. 

PARAMOUNT  [solus]. 

How  do  we  shew  our  authority?  how  do  we  maintain  the 
royal  prerogative?  keep  in  awe  the  knowing  ones  of  the  opposite 
party,  and  blind  the  eyes  of  the  ignorant  multitude  in  Britain? 
Why,  by  spirited  measures,  by  an  accumulation  of  power,  of 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  297 

deception,  and  the  shaking  of  the  keys,  we  may  hope  to  succeed, 
should  that  fail,  I'll  enforce  them  with  the  pointed  bayonet;  the 
Americans  from  one  end  to  the  other  shall  submit,  in  spite  of 
all  opposition;  I'll  listen  to  no  overtures  of  reconciliation  from 
any  petty  self-constituted  congress,  they  shall  submit  implicitly 
to  such  terms  as  I  of  my  royal  indulgence  please  to  grant.  I'll 
shew  them  the  impudence  and  weakness  of  their  resolves,  and 
the  strength  of  mine;  I  will  never  soften;  my  inflexibility  shall 
stand  firm,  and  convince  them  the  second  Pharaoh  is  at  least 
equal  to  the  first.  I  am  unalterably  determined  at  every  hazard 
and  at  the  risk  of  every  consequence  to  compel  the  colonies  to 
absolute  submission.  I'll  draw  in  treasure  from  every  quarter, 
and,  Solomon -like,  wallow  in  riches;  and  Scotland,  my  dear 
Scotland,  shall  be  the  paradise  of  the  world.  Rejoice  in  the 
name  of  Paramount,  and  the  sound  of  a  bawbee  shall  be  no 
more  heard  in  the  land  of  my  nativity. — 

SCENE  IV. 

Enter  CHARLEY  in  haste. 

CHARLEY.   My  Lord,  the  notices  are  all  served. 

PARAMOUNT.   It's  very  well,  Charley. 

CHARLEY.  My  Lord,  be  pleased  to  turn  your  eyes,  and  look 
out  of  the  window,  and  see  the  Lord  Mayor,  Aldermen,  Common 
Council  and  Liverymen  going  to  St.  James's  with  the  address. 

PARAMOUNT.  Where?  Sure  enough — Curse  their  impudence; 
how  that  squinting  scoundrel  swells  with  importance — Mind, 
Charley,  how  fond  he  is  of  bowing  to  the  gaping  multitude,  and 
ev'ry  upstart  he  sees  at  a  window — I  hope  he'll  not  turn  his 
blear  eyes  t'wards  me — I  want  none  of  his  bows,  not  I — Stand 
before  me,  Charley — 

CHARLEY.  I  will,  my  Lord,  and  if  he  looks  this  way,  I'll  give 
him  such  a  devilish  grin  as  best  suits  such  fellows  as  him,  and 
make  him  remember  it  as  long  as  he  lives. 

PARAMOUNT.  Do  so,  Charley ;  I  hate  the  dog  mortally,  I  reli 
giously  hate  him,  and  hope  ere  long  to  have  satisfaction  for  his 
insolence  and  the  freedoms  he  has  taken  with  me  and  my  con 
nections:  I  shall  never  forget  the  many  scandalous  verses, 
lampoons  and  pasquinades  he  made  upon  us. 

CHARLEY.  Indeed,  he  has  used  your  Lordship  too  ill  ever  to 
be  forgotten  or  forgiven. 


298  Representative  Plays 

PARAMOUNT.  Damn  him,  I  never  intend  to  do  either — See 
again  how  he  bows — there  again — how  the  mob  throw  up  their 
hats,  split  their  throats;  how  they  huzza  too;  they  make  a  mere 
god  of  the  fellow;  how  they  idolize  him — Ignorant  brutes! 

CHARLEY.  A  scoundrel;  he  has  climb'd  up  the  stilts  of  prefer 
ment  strangely,  my  Lord. 

PARAMOUNT.   Strangely,  indeed ;  but  it's  our  own  faults. 

CHARLEY.  He  has  had  better  luck  than  honester  folks;  I'm 
surpris'd  to  think  he  has  ever  rose  to  the  honour  of  presenting  a 
remonstrance,  or  rather,  that  he  could  ever  have  the  impudence 
to  think  of  remonstrating. 

PARAMOUNT.  Aye,  Charley,  you  see  how  unaccountably  things 
turn  out;  his  audacity  is  unparalleled — a  Newgate  dog. 

CHARLEY.  My  Lord,  I  believe  the  fellow  was  never  known  to 
blush;  and,  indeed,  it's  an  observation  I  made  some  time  ago, 
and  I  believe  a  just  one,  without  an  exception,  that  those  who 
squint  never  blush. 

PARAMOUNT.    You  must  be  mistaken,  Charley. 

CHARLEY.  No,  my  Lord,  it's  a  fact,  I  had  an  uncle  squinted 
exactly  like  him,  who  was  guilty  of  many  scandalous  things,  and 
yet  all  the  parish,  with  the  parson  at  their  head,  could  not  make 
him  blush,  so  that  at  last  he  became  a  by-word — Here  comes 
old  shame-the-devil ;  this  dog  is  the  very  spawn  of  him. 

PARAMOUNT.  Hoot,  mon,  ye  give  your  uncle  a  shocking  char 
acter. 

CHARLEY.  I  only  mention  it,  my  Lord,  for  the  similarity's 
sake. 

PARAMOUNT.  For  the  spawn  of  him,  and  the  similarity's  sake, 
I'm  apt  to  think  you've  been  abusing  your  own  cousin  all  this 
while. 

CHARLEY.  God  forbid,  my  Lord,  I  should  be  any  how  allied 
to  him. 

PARAMOUNT.  I  fancy,  Charley,  if  the  truth  was  known,  your 
uncle  did  not  mention  you  in  his  will,  and  forgot  to  leave  you 
the  mansion-house  and  farm  at  Gallows-hill.  Am  I  right, 
Charley? 

CHARLEY.   You're  right,  my  Lord,  upon  my  honour — but — 

PARAMOUNT.  I  thought  so —  Well,  never  mind —  Ha,  ha,  ha, 
who  are  those  two  fat  fellows  there,  that  go  in  such  state? 

CHARLEY.  I  suppose  them  to  be  a  couple  of  Livery  Tallow- 
chandlers,  my  Lord,  by  their  big  bellies. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  299 

PARAMOUNT.  Ha,  ha, — what  work  the  guards  would  make 
amongst  them — but  they  must  not  be  called  yet. — And  who  are 
those  other  two  behind  'em? 

CHARLEY.  This  is  Mr.  Hone,  and  the  other  Mr.  Strap,  a 
couple  of  the  Corporation  Barbers,  forsooth. 

PARAMOUNT.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  I  thought  they  had  been  a  couple 
of  Dukes; — and  that  one — who  is  he  with  the  monstrous  wig? 

CHARLEY.  That  is  Mr.  Alderman  Pipeshank,  in  Newgate-street. 

PARAMOUNT.  A  parcel  of  Newgate  dogs  altogether —  Well  it 
is  a  good  deal  of  satisfaction  to  me  to  think  how  this  fellow  will 
be  received  at  St.  James's;  he'll  not  return  back  so  pleas'd  as 
he  seems  to  be  now,  I  warrant  you — I  have  taken  care  he  shall 

meet  with  a  d d  cold  reception  there;  he  will  have  to  make 

his  appearance  before  Lord  Frostyface,  Lord  Scarecrow,  Lord 
Sneerwell,  Lord  Firebrand,  Lord  Mawmouth,  Lord  Waggon- 
jaws,  Lord  Gripe,  Lord  Brass,  Lord  Surly  and  Lord  Tribu 
lation,  as  hard-fac'd  fellows  as  himself;  and  the  beauty  of  it  is, 
not  one  of  them  loves  him  a  whit  more  than  I  do. 

CHARLEY.  That  will  be  rare  diversion  for  them  that  are 
present;  he'll  look  then,  my  Lord,  like  Sampson  making  sport 
for  the  Philistines. 

PARAMOUNT.  Aye,  but  I  wish  he  was  as  blind  too,  as  Sampson 
was. — Well  Charley,  we  have  been  dispos'd  to  be  a  little  merry 
with  this  ridiculous  parade,  this  high  life  below  stairs.  I  wish 
you  had  begun  your  description  a  little  sooner,  before  they  were 
all  gone;  the  looks  of  these  wiseacres  afford  us  some  mirth,  tho' 
we  despise  them  and  their  politics,  and  it's  not  unlikely  it  may 
end  in  blood — Be  it  so,  I'm  prepar'd  for  the  worst. 

CHARLEY.   Rather  so,  my  Lord,  than  submit  to  such  rascals. 

PARAMOUNT.   I'll  give  up  my  life  first  for  a  sacrifice. 

[Exit  CHARLEY. 

SCENE  V. 

Enter   MOCKLAW,  POLTRON,   HYPOCRITE,   CATSPAW,   BRAZEN, 
JUDAS.   [All  seated.] 

PARAMOUNT.  My  Lords  and  Gentlemen,  it  seems  opposition 
to  our  measures  are  making  hasty  strides;  the  discontented 
faction,  the  supporters  and  encouragers  of  rebellion,  and  whole 
hearts  are  tainted  therewith,  seem  bent,  if  possible,  on  the 
destruction  of  Britain,  and  their  own  aggrandisement.  Are  not 
the  daily  papers  filled  with  treasonable  resolves  of  American 


300  Representative  Plays 

congresses  and  committees,  extracts  of  letters,  and  other 
infamous  pieces  and  scurrilous  pamphlets,  circulating  with 
unusual  industry  throughout  the  kingdom,  by  the  enemies  of 
Britain,  thereby  poisoning  the  minds  of  our  liege  subjects  with 
their  detestable  tenets? — And  did  you  not  this  day  see  the 
procession,  and  that  vile  miscreant  Lord  Patriot  at  their  head, 
going  to  St.  James's  with  their  remonstrance,  in  such  state  and 
parade  as  manifestly  tended  to  provoke,  challenge  and  defy 
majesty  itself,  and  the  powers  of  government?  and  yet  nothing 
done  to  stop  their  pernicious  effects. — Surely,  my  Lords  and 
Gentlemen,  you  must  agree  with  me,  that  it  is  now  become 
highly  expedient  that  an  immediate  stop  should  be  put  to  such 
unwarrantable  and  dangerous  proceedings,  by  the  most  vigor 
ous  and  coercive  measures. 

MOCKLAW.  I  entirely  agree  with  your  Lordship,  and  was  ever 
firmly  of  opinion,  that  licentiousness  of  every  kind  (particularly 
that  of  the  Press)  is  dangerous  to  the  state;  the  rabble  should  be 
kept  in  awe  by  examples  of  severity,  and  a  proper  respect  should 
be  enforced  to  superiors.  I  have  sufficiently  shewn  my  dislike  to 
the  freedom  of  the  Press,  by  the  examples  I  have  frequently 
made  (tho'  too  favourable)  of  several  Printers,  and  others,  who 
had  greatly  trespassed,  and  if  they  still  persist,  other  measures 
should  be  taken  with  them,  which  the  laws  will  point  out;  and 
as  to  Lord  Patriot,  he's  a  fellow  that  has  been  outlaw'd,  scandal- 
proof,  little  to  be  got  by  meddling  with  him;  I  would  advise  to 
let  him  alone  for  the  present,  and  humble  America  first. 

MR.  BRAZEN.  I  am  very  clear  in  it,  please  your  Lordship; 
there  are  numbers  of  men  in  this  country  who  are  ever  study 
ing  how  to  perplex  and  entangle  the  state,  constantly  thwarting 
government,  in  ev'ry  laudable  undertaking;  this  clamorous 
faction  must  be  curbed,  must  be  subdued  and  crush'd — our 
thunder  must  go  forth,  America  must  be  conquered.  I  am  for 
blood  and  fire  to  crush  the  rising  glories  of  America — They  boast 
of  her  strength ;  she  must  be  conquered,  if  half  of  Germany  is 
called  to  our  assistance. 

MR.  POLTRON.  1  entirely  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Brazen;  my 
advice  is,  that  Lord  Boston  and  Admiral  Tombstone  be  imme 
diately  despatch'd  to  Boston,  with  two  or  three  regiments  (tho' 
one  would  be  more  than  sufficient)  and  a  few  ships  to  shut  up 
their  ports,  disannul  their  charter,  stop  their  trade,  and  the 
pusillanimous  beggars,  those  scoundrel  rascals,  whose  predomi- 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  301 

nant  passion  is  fear,  would  immediately  give  up,  on  the  first 
landing  of  the  regulars,  and  fly  before  'em  like  a  hare  before 
the  hounds;  that  this  would  be  the  case,  I  pawn  my  honour  to 
your  Lordships,  nay,  I'll  sacrifice  my  life:  My  Lords,  I  have 
moreover  the  testimony  of  General  Amherst  and  Colonel  Grant 
to  back  my  assertion;  besides,  here's  Mr.  Judas,  let  him  speak. 

LORD  HYPOCRITE.  If  this  is  the  same  Colonel  Grant  that  was 
at  Fort  Duquesne,  the  same  that  ran  away  from  the  French  and 
Indians,  the  same  that  was  rescued  by  Colonel  Washington,  I 
have  no  idea  of  his  honour  or  testimony. 

LORD  POLTRON.  He's  a  Gentleman,  my  Lord  Hypocrite,  of 
undoubted  veracity. 

LORD  HYPOCRITE.  You  might  as  well  have  said  courage  too, 
I  have  exceptions  against  both;  and  as  to  General  Amherst's 
assertion  that  he  could  drive  all  America  with  five  thousand 
men,  he  must  have  been  joking,  as  he  is  quite  of  a  diffrent 
opinion  now. 

LORD  CATSPAW.  What  is  your  opinion  of  your  countrymen, 
Mr.  Judas,  with  respect  to  their  courage? 

JUDAS.  The  same  that  I  have  ever  told  you,  my  Lord;  as 
to  true  courage  they  have  none,  I  know  'em  well — they  have  a 
plenty  of  a  kind  of  enthusiastic  zeal,  which  they  substitute  in 
the  room  of  it;  I  am  very  certain  they  would  never  face  the 
regulars,  tho'  with  the  advantage  of  ten  to  one. 

LORD  HYPOCRITE.  All  this,  and  a  great  deal  more,  would 
never  convince  me  of  the  general  cowardice  of  the  Americans — 
but  of  the  cowardice  of  Grant  I've  been  long  convinced,  by 
numbers  of  letters  formerly  from  America — I'm  for  doing  the 
business  effectually;  don't  let  us  be  too  sanguine,  trust  to  stories 
told  by  every  sycophant,  and  hurry  heels  over  head  to  be  laugh 'd 
at;  the  Americans  are  bold,  stubborn,  and  sour;  it  will  require 
foreign  assistance  to  subdue  'em. 

LORD  CATSPAW.  These  four  Americans,  ignorant  brutes,  un- 
broke  and  wild,  must  be  tamed;  they'll  soon  be  humble  if 
punish'd;  but  if  disregarded,  grow  fierce. — Barbarous  nations 
must  be  held  by  fear,  rein'd  and  spurr'd  hard,  chain'd  to  the 
oar,  and  bow'd  to  due  control,  till  they  look  grim  with  blood; 
let's  first  humble  America,  and  bring  them  under  our  feet;  the 
olive-branch  has  been  held  out,  and  they  have  rejected  it;  it  now 
becomes  us  to  use  the  iron  rod  to  break  their  disobedience;  and 
should  we  lack  it,  foreign  assistance  is  at  hand. 


302  Representative  Plays 

LORD  HYPOCRITE.  All  this  I  grant,  but  I'm  for  sending  a  force 
sufficient  to  crush  'em  at  once,  and  not  with  too  much  precipita 
tion;  I  am  first  for  giving  it  a  colour  of  impartiality,  forbearance 
and  religion. — Lay  it  before  parliament ;  we  have  then  law  on  our 
side,  and  endeavour  to  gain  over  some  or  all  of  the  Methodist 
Teachers,  and  in  particular  my  very  good  friend  Mr.  Wesley,  their 
Bishop,  and  the  worthy  Mr.  Clapum,  which  task  I  would  under 
take;  it  will  then  have  the  sanction  of  religion,  make  it  less  sus 
pected,  and  give  it  a  better  grace. 

LORD  CATSPAW.  I  should  choose  it  to  be  done  by  consent  of 
parliament;  we  stand  then  on  firmer  ground;  there's  no  doubt 
they'll  grant  ev'ry  thing  your  Lordship  proposes  upon  my  motion: 
but  to  tell  the  truth,  I'd  rather  be  in  Purgatory  so  long,  than 
to  run  the  gauntlet  of  the  Bold  Irishman's  tongue. 

MOCKLAW.  Aye,  aye,  don't  part  with  the  law  while  it's  in  our 
favour,  or  we  can  have  it  by  asking  for — and  as  to  the  Bold  Irish 
man,  don't  be  brow-beaten,  you  must  summon  all  your  brass, 
and  put  on  a  rugged  highwayman's  face  like  his;  I  expect  some 
work  of  that  kind  too,  but  the  devil  himself  sha'n't  browbeat  me. 

PARAMOUNT.  I  am  glad  to  find,  my  Lords  and  Gentlemen,  you 
all  see  the  necessity  of  sending  over  troops  and  ships;  I  intend  my 
Lord  Catspaw  shall  lay  it  before  parliament,  and  am  very  certain 
they'll  pass  any  acts  I  can  desire.  I  thank  you,  Lord  Hypocrite, 
for  your  kind  offer,  and  accept  of  it;  my  Lord  of  Suffolk  is  nego 
tiating  the  same  business  with  the  rest  of  my  Lords  the  Bishops, 
and  will  succeed;  so  that  it  will  carry  the  appearance  of  law,  of 
religion,  and  will  be  sufficiently  grac'd;  I'll  warrant  you  no  one 
shall  have  cause  to  complain  of  its  wanting  grace.  And  now, 
my  Lords  and  Gentlemen,  as  it's  so  late,  and  we  have  gone 
through  all  the  business  at  this  time  proposed,  you  are  at  your 
liberty  to  withdraw.  [Exeunt. 

PARAMOUNT  [solus]. 

The  fate  of  England  and  America  is  now  fixed,  irrevocably 
fixed;  the  storm  is  ready  to  burst;  the  low'ring  clouds  portend 
their  fate  my  glory,  their  fall  my  triumph — But  |I  must  haste  to 
be  gone,  the  ceremonies  await  my  presence;  deeds  of  darkness 
must  be  done  by  night,  and,  like  the  silent  mole's  work,  under 
ground: 

Now  rushing  forth  in  sober  twilight  gray, 
Like  prowling  wolf,  who  ranges  for  his  prey. 

[Exit. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  303 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 
LORD  WISDOM,  LORD  RELIGION,  LORD  JUSTICE. 

LORD  WISDOM. 

I  much  lament,  my  Lords,  the  present  unhappy  situation  of 
my  country;  where  e'er  I  turn  mine  eyes,  to  Europe,  Asia,  Africa, 
or  America,  the  prospect  appears  the  same — Look  up  to  the 
throne,  and  behold  your  king,  if  I  may  now  call  him  by  that  soft 
title — Where  is  the  wisdom,  the  justice,  the  religion,  that  once 
adorn'd  that  throne,  and  shed  the  benign  influence  of  their  bright 
rays  thro'  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe?  Alas!  they're  flown! 

Mark  his  forlorn  looks — his  countenance  dejected,  a  sullen 
greatness  fixed  on  his  brow,  as  if  it  veil'd  in  blood  some  awful 
purpose,  his  eyes  flaming  and  sanguinary;  how  I  bewail  you, 
for  your  predecessor's  sake!  Long,  long  have  I  been  an  old, 
and  I  trust  a  faithful,  servant  in  the  family — Can  I  then  restrain 
one  tear?  No,  'tis  impossible!  View  that  arch-dragon,  that  old 
fiend,  Paramount,  that  rebel  in  grain,  whispering  in  his  ear. 
View  his  wretched  ministers  hovering  round  him,  to  accomplish 
their  accursed  purpose,  and  accelerate  his  destruction.  View  the 
whole  herd  of  administration  (I  know  'em  well)  and  tell  me  if 
the  world  can  furnish  a  viler  set  of  miscreants?  View  both  houses 
of  parliament,  and  count  the  number  of  Tyrants,  Jacobites,. 
Tories,  Placemen,  Pensioners,  Sycophants,  and  Panders.  View 
the  constitution,  is  she  not  disrob'd  and  dismantled?  is  she  not 
become  like  a  virgin  deflower'd?  View  our  fleets  and  armies 
commanded  by  bloody,  murdering  butchers!  View  Britain  her 
self  as  a  sheep  without  a  shepherd!  And  lastly  view  America, 
for  her  virtue  bleeding  and  for  her  liberty  weltering  in  her  blood ! 

LORD  RELIGION.  Such  hath,  and  ever  will  be  the  fate  of 
kings,  who  only  listen  to  the  voice  of  pleasure,  thrown  in  their 
way  by  the  sirens  of  administration,  which  never  fail  to  swallow 
them  up  like  quicksand — like  a  serpent,  who  charms  and  fasci 
nates,  bewitches  and  enchants  with  his  eye  the  unwary  bird: 
witness  the  fatal  catastrophe  of  Rehoboam,  who  rejected  the 
counsel  of  the  wise  and  experienced,  and  gave  up  all  to  the 
advice  and  guidance  of  young,  unskilful  and  wicked  counsellors. 
Had  he  listen'd  to  you,  my  Lord,  had  he  followed  your  advice, 
all,  all  would  have  gone  well — Under  your  auspicious  adminis- 


304  Representative  Plays 

tration  Britain  flourished,  but  ever  since  has  been  on  the  decline, 
and  patriotism,  like  religion,  scarcely  now  more  than  a  sounding 
brass  or  a  tinkling  cymbal. 

LORD  WISDOM.  My  counsel  has  been  rejected — my  concilia 
tory  plan  thrown  under  the  table,  and  treated  with  contempt; 
the  experience  of  gray  hairs  called  the  superannuated  notions 
of  old  age — my  bodily  infirmities — my  tottering  frame — my 
crazy  carcase,  worn  out  in  the  service  of  my  country,  and  even 
my  very  crutches,  have  been  made  the  subject  of  their  ridicule. 

LORD  JUSTICE.  Gratitude,  like  religion  and  patriotism,  are 
about  taking  their  flight,  and  the  law  of  the  land  stands  on  tip 
toe;  the  constitution,  that  admirable  fabric,  that  work  of  ages, 
the  envy  of  the  world,  is  deflower'd  indeed,  and  made  to  commit 
a  rape  upon  her  own  body,  by  the  avaricious  frowns  of  her  own 
father,  who  is  bound  to  protect  her,  not  to  destroy. — Her  pillars 
are  thrown  down,  her  capitals  broke,  her  pedestals  demolish'd, 
and  her  foundation  nearly  destroy'd. — Lord  Paramount  and  his 
wretched  adviser  Mocklaw  baffle  all  our  efforts. — The  statutes 
of  the  land  superseded  by  royal  proclamations  and  dispensing 
powers,  &c.,  &c.,  the  bloody  knife  to  be  held  to  the  throats  of 
the  Americans,  and  force  them  to  submit  to  slav'ry. — Adminis 
tration  have  commenced  bloody  tyrants,  and  those  that  should 
protect  the  subject  are  become  their  executioners;  yet  will  I 
dispute  with  them  inch  by  inch,  while  there's  a  statute  book  left 
,in  the  land.  Come  forth,  thou  grand  deceiver!  I  challenge  thee 
to  come  forth! 

LORD  WISDOM.  Our  friends  must  bestir  themselves  once  more, 
perhaps  we  may  yet  turn  the  scale. — If  the  voice  of  religion, 
wisdom  and  justice  should  fail,  let  us  sound  the  trumpet  of 
liberty  and  patriotism,  that  will  conquer  them  in  America,  I 
know;  let  us  try  to  storm  them  here  with  the  united  whole,  and 
if  by  a  base  majority  they  still  carry  their  point,  we  can  neverthe 
less  wash  our  hands  and  be  clean. 

LORD  RELIGION.  [From  the  pulpit,  in  the  house  of  God,  have 
I  spoken  aloud,  I  have  lifted  up  my  voice  like  a  trumpet.  O 
Britain,  how  art  thou  fallen !  Hear  now,  O  house  of  Britain,  is 
it  a  small  thing  for  you  to  weary  man,  but  will  you  weary  your 
God  also?  In  the  house  of  Lords  have  I  borne  my  testimony: 
Hear  now,  O  ye  Princes,  and  I  will  yet  declare  in  Britain, 
and  shew  forth  in  America,  I  will  not  cease  till  I  bring  about 
(if  possible)  unity,  peace  and  concord. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  305 

LORD  WISDOM.  Much  to  be  wished  for;  but  alas!  I  fear  it's 
now  too  late;  I  foresee  the  tendency  and  consequence  of  those 
diabolical  measures  that  have  been  pursued  with  unrelenting  fury. 
Britain  will  ruin  her  trade,  waste  her  wealth,  her  strength,  her 
credit  and  her  importance  in  the  scale  of  Europe.  When  a  British 
king  proves  ungrateful  and  haughty,  and  strives  to  be  independent 
of  his  people  (who  are  his  sole  support),  the  people  will  in  their 
turn  likewise  strive  to  be  independent  of  him  and  his  myrmidons, 
and  will  be  free ;  they  will  erect  the  anfractuous  standard  of  inde 
pendency,  and  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  will  flock  to  it, 
and  solace  themselves  under  its  shade. — They  has  often  been  told 
of  this,  but  affected  to  despise  it;  they  know  not  America's 
strength,  they  are  ignorant  of  it;  fed  by  the  flatt'ry  of  every 
sycophant  tale,  imagine  themselves  almighty,  and  able  to  subdue 
the  whole  world.  America  will  be  lost  to  Britain  forever,  and 
will  prove  her  downfall.  America  is  wise,  and  will  shake  off  the 
galling  yoke  before  it  be  rivetted  on  them ;  they  will  be  drove  to 
it,  and  who  can  blame  them  ?  Who  can  blame  a  galley-slave  for 
making  his  escape? — Britain  will  miscarry  in  her  vile  projects, 
her  knight  errant,  her  Don  Quixote  schemes  in  America:  America 
will  resist;  they  are  not  easily  to  be  subdued  (nay,  'tis  impossible) ; 
Britain  will  find  it  a  harder  task  than  to  conquer  France  and 
Spain  united,  and  will  cost  'em  more  blood  and  treasure  than  a 
twice  Seven  Years'  War  with  those  European  powers;  they  will 
stand  out  till  Britons  are  tired.  Britain  will  invite  her  with  kind 
promises  and  open  arms;  America  will  reject  them;  America  will 
triumph,  rejoice  and  flourish,  and  become  the  glory  of  the  earth; 
Britain  will  languidly  hold  down  her  head,  and  become  first  a 
prey  to  a  vile  Pretender,  and  then  be  subject  to  the  ravagers  of 
Europe.  I  love  the  Americans,  because  they  love  liberty.  Lib 
erty  flourishes  in  the  wilds  of  America.  I  honour  the  plant,  I 
revere  the  tree,  and  would  cherish  its  branches.  Let  us,  my 
friends,  join  hands  with  them,  follow  their  example,  and  en 
deavour  to  support  expiring  liberty  in  Britain;  whilst  I  have  a 
tongue  to  speak,  I  will  support  her  wherever  found;  while  I  have 
crutches  to  crawl  with,  I  will  try  to  find  her  out,  and  with  the 
voice  of  an  archangel  will  demand  for  a  sacrifice  to  the  nation 
those  miscreants  who  have  wickedly  and  wantonly  been  the  ruin 
of  their  country.  O  Liberty!  O  my  Country! 

LORD  RELIGION.  O  Religion!  O  Virtue!  whither  art  thou 
fleeing?  O  thou  Defender  of  the  Faith?  O  ye  mighty  Lords 


306  Representative  Plays 

and  Commons !  O  ye  deluded  Bishops,  ye  learned  props  of  our 
unerring  church,  who  preach  up  vengeance,  force  and  fire,  instead 
of  peace !  be  wise  in  time,  lest  the  Americans  be  driven  to  work 
out  their  own  salvation  without  fear  or  trembling.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

LORD  PATRIOT,  BOLD  IRISHMAN,  COLONEL. 
BOLD  IRISHMAN. 

That  Brazen  Lawyer,1  that  Lord  Chancellor,  that  wou'd  be, 
held  forth  surprisingly  last  night,  he  beat  the  drum  in  your  ears, 
brother  soldier. 

COLONEL.    I  think  he  did ;  he  beat  a  Tatoo  for  us  all. 

LORD  PATRIOT.  No  politicians,  but  lawyer  politicians,  it  seems 
will  go  down ;  if  we  believe  him,  we  must  all  turn  lawyers  now, 
and  prate  away  the  liberties  of  the  nation. 

COLONEL.  Aye,  first  we  must  learn  to  rail  at  the  clamourous 
faction,  disappointed  politicians — ever  restless — ever  plotting — 
constantly  thwarting  government,  in  laudable  and  blameable 
purposes. — Inconsiderable  party — inconsistent  in  their  own  poli 
tics — hostile  to  all  government,  soured  by  disappointment,  and 
urged  by  want — proceeding  to  unjustifiable  lengths — and  then 
sound  the  magnanimity  of  a  British  senate,  animated  by  the 
sacred  fire  caught  from  a  high-spirited  people — 

BOLD  IRISHMAN.  And  the  devil  knows  what  beside — Magna 
nimity  and  sacred  fire,  indeed ! — Very  magnanimous  sounds,  but 
pompous  nothings!  Why  did  he  not  tell  us  where  was  the 
magnanimity  of  the  British  senate  at  the  time  of  the  dispute 
about  Falkland's  Island?  What  sort  of  fire  animated  them 
then? — Where  was  the  high  spirit  of  the  people? — Strange  sort 
of  fire,  and  strange  sort  of  spirit,  to  give  up  to  our  inveterate 
enemies,  the  Spaniards,  our  property  unasked  for,  and  cut  our 
best  friends  and  brethren,  the  Americans'  throats,  for  defend 
ing  theirs  against  lawless  tyranny;  their  sacred  fire  became  then 
all  fume,  and  the  strength  of  their  boasted  spirits  evaporated 
into  invisible  effluvium;  the  giant  then  sunk  sure  enough  spon 
taneously  into  a  dwarf;  and  now,  it  seems,  the  dwarf  having  been 
feeding  upon  smoky  fire  and  evaporated  spirits,  is  endeavouring 
to  swell  himself  into  a  giant  again,  like  the  frog  in  the  fable, 
till  he  bursts  himself  in  silent  thunder — But  let  the  mighty 
Philistine,  the  Goliath  Paramount,  and  his  oracle  Mocklaw, 

1  See  Wedderburne's  Speech. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  307 

with  their  thunder  bellowed  from  the  brazen  mortar-piece  of  a 
turn-coat  lawyer,  have  a  care  of  the  little  American  David ! 

LORD  PATRIOT.  Aye,  indeed!  America  will  prove  a  second 
Sampson  to  'em;  they  may  put  out  his  eyes  for  a  while,  but 
he'll  pull  their  house  down  about  their  ears  for  all  that.  Mr. 
Brazen  seem'd  surpris'd  at  the  thought  of  relinquishing  America, 
and  bawl'd  out  with  the  vociferation  of  an  old  miser  that  had 
been  robb'd — Relinquish  America!  relinquish  America!  forbid 
it  heavens!  But  let  him  and  his  masters  take  great  care,  or 
America  will  save  'em  the  trouble,  and  relinquish  Britain. 

COLONEL.  Or  I'm  much  mistaken,  Brazen  says,  establish 
first  your  superiority,  and  then  talk  of  negotiating. 

LORD  PATRIOT.  That  doctrine  suits  'em  best;  just  like  a 
cowardly  pickpocket,  or  a  bloody  highwayman,  knock  a  man 
down  first,  and  then  tell  him  stand  and  deliver. 

COLONEL.  A  just  comparison,  and  excellent  simile,  by  my 
soul!  But  I'm  surpris'd  he  did  not  include  the  Clergy  among 
the  number  of  professions  unfit  (as  he  said)  to  be  politicians. 

BOLD  IRISHMAN.  Did  you  ever  know  a  lawyer  to  be  concerned 
with  religion,  unless  he  got  a  fee  by  it?  he'll  take  care  and  steer 
clear  of  that;  if  it  don't  come  in  his  way,  he'll  never  break  his 
neck  over  a  church  bible,  I  warrant  you — Mammon  is  his  god 
— Judge  Jeffereys  is  his  priest — Star-chamber  doctrine  is  his 
creed — fire,  flames  and  faggot,  blood,  murder,  halters  and 
thund'ring  cannon  are  the  ceremonies  of  his  church — and  lies, 
misrepresentations,  deceit,  hypocrisy  and  dissimulation  are  the 
articles  of  his  religion. 

LORD  PATRIOT.    You  make  him  a  monster,  indeed. 

BOLD  IRISHMAN.  Not  half  so  bad  as  he  is,  my  Lord;  he's  fol 
lowing  close  to  the  heels  of  that  profound  sage,  that  oracle, 
Mocklaw,  his  tutor:  I  can  compare  the  whole  herd  of  them  to 
nothing  else  but  to  the  swine  we  read  of  running  headlong  down 
the  hill,  Paramount  their  devil,  Mocklaw  the  evil  spirit,  and 
Brazen  their  driver. 

COLONEL.  And  thus  they'll  drive  liberty  from  out  the  land ;  but 
when  a  brave  people,  like  the  Americans,  from  their  infancy  us'd 
to  liberty  (not  as  a  gift,  but  who  inherit  it  as  a  birth-right,  but  not 
as  a  mess  of  pottage,  to  be  bought  by,  or  sold  to,  ev'ry  hungry 
glutton  of  a  minister)  find  attempts  made  to  reduce  them  to 
slavery,  they  generally  take  some  desperate  successful  measure 
for  their  deliverance.  I  should  not  be  at  all  surpris'd  to  hear  of 


308  Representative  Plays 

independency  proclaim'd  throughout  their  land,  of  Britain's 
armies  beat,  their  fleets  burnt,  sunk,  or  otherwise  destroy 'd. 
The  same  principle  which  Mr.  Brazen  speaks  of,  that  inspires 
British  soldiers  to  fight,  namely  the  ferment  of  youthful  blood,  the 
high  spirit  of  the  people,  a  love  of  glory,  and  a  sense  of  national 
honour,  will  inspire  the  Americans  to  withstand  them ;  to  which 
I  may  add,  liberty  and  property. — But  what  is  national  honour? 
Why,  national  pride. — What  is  national  glory?  Why,  national 
nonsense,  when  put  in  competition  with  liberty  and  property. 

LORD  PATRIOT.  Of  Britain  I  fear  liberty  has  taken  its  fare 
well,  the  aspiring  wings  of  tyranny  hath  long  hovered  over,  and 
the  over-shadowing  influence  of  bribery  hath  eclips'd  its  rays 
and  dark'ned  its  lustre;  the  huge  Paramount,  that  temporal 
deity,  that  golden  calf,  finds  servile  wretches  enough  so  base  as 
to  bow  down,  worship  and  adore  his  gilded  horns; — let  'em  e'en 
if  they  will : — But  as  for  me,  tho'  I  should  stand  alone,  I  would 
spurn  the  brute,  were  he  forty-five  *  times  greater  than  he  is; 
I'll  administer,  ere  long,  such  an  emetic  to  him,  as  shall  make 
the  monster  disgorge  the  forty  millions  yet  unaccounted  for, 
and  never  shall  it  be  said,  that  Patriot  ever  feared  or  truckled 
to  him,  or  kept  a  silent  tongue  when  it  should  speak. 

BOLD  IRISHMAN.   There  I'll  shake  hands  with  you,  and  my 
tongue  shall  echo  in  their  ears,  make  their  arched  ceiling  speak, 
the  treasury  bench  crack,   and  the  great  chair  of  their  great 
speaker  tremble,  and  never  will  I  cease  lashing  them,  while  lash 
ing  is  good,  or  hope  remains;  and  when  the  voice  of  poor  liberty 
can  no  longer  be  heard  in  Britain  or  Hibernia,  let's  give  Cale 
donia  a  kick  with  our  heels,  and  away  with  the  goddess  to  the 
American  shore,  crown  her,  and  defy  the  grim  king  of  tyranny, 
at  his  peril,  to  set  his  foot  there. — Here  let  him  stay,  and  wallow 
in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  like  a  beast  as  he  is,  and,  Nebuchadnezzar- 
like,  eat  grass  and  thistles.  [Exeunt. 
See  Paramount,  upon  his  awful  throne. 
Striving  to  make  each  freeman's  purse  his  own! 
While  Lords  and  Commons  most  as  one  agree, 
To  grace  his  head  with  crown  of  tyranny. 
They  spurn  the  laws, — -force  constitution  locks, 
To  seize  each  subject's  coffer,  chest  and  box; 
Send  justice  packing,  as  tho1  too  pure  unmix1  d, 
And  hug  the  tyrant,  as  if  by  law  he's  fix' d. 

1  Alluding  to  North-Briton,  Number  forty-five. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  309 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.   In  Boston. 
SELECTMAN,  CITIZEN. 

SELECTMAN. 

At  length,  it  seems,  the  bloody  flag  is  hung  out,  the  ministry 
and  parliament,  ever  studious  in  mischief,  and  bent  on  our 
destruction,  have  ordered  troops  and  ships  of  war  to  shut  our 
ports,  and  starve  us  into  submission. 

CITIZEN.  And  compel  us  to  be  slaves;  I  have  heard  so.  It  is 
a  fashionable  way  to  requite  us  for  our  loyalty,  for  the  present 
we  made  them  of  Louisburg,  for  our  protection  at  Duquesne, 
for  the  assistance  we  gave  them  at  Quebec,  Martinico,  Guadaloupe 
and  the  Havannah.  Blast  their  councils,  spurn  their  ingratitude ! 
Soul  of  Pepperel!  whither  art  thou  fled? 

SELECTMAN.  They  seem  to  be  guided  by  some  secret  demon; 
this  stopping  our  ports  and  depriving  us  of  all  trade  is  cruel, 
calculated  to  starve  and  beggar  thousands  of  families,  more 
spiteful  than  politic,  more  to  their  own  disadvantage  than 
ours:  But  we  can  resolve  to  do  without  trade;  it  will  be  the 
means  of  banishing  luxury,  which  has  ting'd  the  simplicity  and 
spotless  innocence  of  our  once  happy  asylum. 

CITIZEN.  We  thank  heaven,  we  have  the  necessaries  of  life 
in  abundance,  even  to  an  exuberant  plenty;  and  how  oft  have 
our  hospitable  tables  fed  numbers  of  those  ungrateful  monsters, 
who  would  now,  if  they  could,  famish  us? 

SELECTMAN.  No  doubt,  as  we  abound  in  those  temporal 
blessings,  it  has  tempted  them  to  pick  our  pockets  by  violence, 
in  hopes  of  treasures  more  to  their  minds. 

CITIZEN.  In  that  these  thirsters  after  gold  and  human  blood 
will  be  disappointed.  No  Perus  or  Mexicos  here  they'll  find; 
but  the  demon  you  speak  of,  tho'  he  acts  in  secret,  is  notoriously 
known.  Lord  Paramount  is  that  demon,  that  bird  of  prey,  that 
ministerial  cormorant,  that  waits  to  devour,  and  who  first 
thought  to  disturb  the  repose  of  America;  a  wretch,  no  friend 
to  mankind,  who  acts  thro'  envy  and  avarice,  like  Satan,  who 
'scap'd  from  hell  to  disturb  the  regions  of  paradise;  after  ran 
sacking  Britain  and  Hibernia  for  gold,  the  growth  of  hell,  to 
feed  his  luxury,  now  waits  to  rifle  the  bowels  of  America. 

SELECTMAN.  May  he  prove  more  unsuccessful  than  Satan; 
blind  politics,  rank  infatuation,  madness  detestable,  the  con- 


310  Representative  Plays 

comitants  of  arbitrary  power!  They  can  never  think  to  succeed; 
but  should  they  conquer,  they'll  find  that  he  who  overcometh  by 
force  and  blood,  hath  overcome  but  half  his  foe.  Capt.  Preston's 
massacre  is  too  recent  in  our  memories;  and  if  a  few  troops  dar'd 
to  commit  such  hellish  unprovok'd  barbarities,  what  may  we 
not  expect  from  legions  arm'd  with  vengeance,  whose  leaders 
harbour  principles  repugnant  to  freedom,  and  possess'd  with 
more  than  diabolical  notions?  Surely  our  friends  will  oppose 
them  with  all  the  power  heaven  has  given  them. 

CITIZEN.  Nothing  more  certain;  each  citizen  and  each  indi 
vidual  inhabitant  of  America  are  bound  by  the  ties  of  nature; 
the  laws  of  God  and  man  justify  such  a  procedure;  passive 
obedience  for  passive  slaves,  and  non-resistance  for  servile 
wretches  who  know  not,  neither  deserve,  the  sweets  of  liberty. 
As  for  me  and  my  house,  thank  God,  such  detestable  doctrine 
never  did,  nor  ever  shall,  enter  over  my  threshold. 

SELECTMAN.  Would  all  America  were  so  zealous  as  you. — 
The  appointment  of  a  general  Continental  Congress  was  a 
judicious  measure,  and  will  prove  the  salvation  of  this  new 
world,  where  counsel  mature,  wisdom  and  strength  united;  it 
will  prove  a  barrier,  a  bulwark,  against  the  encroachments  of 
arbitrary  power. 

CITIZEN.  I  much  approve  of  the  choice  of  a  congress ;  America 
is  young,  she  will  be  to  it  like  a  tender  nursing  mother,  she  will 
give  it  the  paps  of  virtue  to  suck,  cherish  it  with  the  milk  of 
liberty,  and  fatten  it  on  the  cream  of  patriotism;  she  will  train 
it  up  in  its  youth,  and  teach  it  to  shun  the  poison  of  British 
voluptuousness,  and  instruct  it  to  keep  better  company.  Let 
us,  my  friend,  support  her  all  in  our  power,  and  set  on  foot  an 
immediate  association;  they  will  form  an  intrenchment,  too 
strong  for  ministerial  tyranny  to  o'erleap. 

SELECTMAN.  I  am  determined  so  to  do,  it  may  prevent  the 
farther  effusion  of  blood. 

SCENE  II. 
Enter  a  MINISTER. 

MINISTER. 

My  friends,  I  yet  will  hail  you  good  morrow,  tho'  I  know  not 
how  long  we  may  be  indulg'd  that  liberty  to  each  other;  doleful 
tidings  I  have  to  tell. 


\ 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  311 

SELECTMAN.   With  sorrow  we  have  heard  it,  good  morrow,  sir. 

MINISTER.  Wou'd  to  God  it  may  prove  false,  and  that  it 
may  vanish  like  the  dew  of  the  morning. 

CITIZEN.    Beyond  a  doubt,  sir,  it's  too  true. 

MINISTER.    Perhaps,  my  friends,  you  have  not  heard  all. 

SELECTMAN.  We  have  heard  too  much,  of  the  troops  and 
ships  coming  over,  we  suppose  you  mean;  we  have  not  heard 
more,  if  more  there  be. 

MINISTER.  Then  worse  I  have  to  tell,  tidings  which  will  raise 
the  blood  of  the  patriot,  and  put  your  virtue  to  the  proof,  will 
kindle  such  an  ardent  love  of  liberty  in  your  breasts,  as  time 
will  not  be  able  to  exterminate — 

CITIZEN.    Pray,  let  us  hear  it,  I'm  all  on  fire. 

SELECTMAN.    I'm  impatient  to  know  it,  welcome  or  unwelcome. 

MINISTER.  Such  as  it  is,  take  it;  your  charter  is  annihilated; 
you  are  all,  all  declared  rebels;  your  estates  are  to  be  confiscated ; 
your  patrimony  to  be  given  to  those  who  never  labour'd  for  it; 
popery  to  be  established  in  the  room  of  the  true  catholic  faith; 
the  Old  South,  and  other  houses  of  our  God,  converted  perhaps 
into  nunneries,  inquisitions,  barracks  and  common  jails,  where 
you  will  perish  with  want  and  famine,  or  suffer  an  ignominious 
death;  your  wives,  children,  dearest  relations  and  friends  forever 
separated  from  you  in  this  world,  without  the  prospect  of  receiv 
ing  any  comfort  or  consolation  from  them,  or  the  least  hope  of 
affording  any  to  them. 

SELECTMAN.   Perish  the  thought! 

CITIZEN.  I've  heard  enough! — To  arms!  my  dear  friends,  to 
arms!  and  death  or  freedom  be  our  motto! 

MINISTER.  A  noble  resolution!  Posterity  will  crown  the  urn 
of  the  patriot  who  consecrates  his  talents  to  virtue  and  freedom ; 
his  name  shall  not  be  forgot;  his  reputation  shall  bloom  with 
unfading  verdure,  while  the  name  of  the  tyrant,  like  his  vile 
body,  shall  moulder  in  the  dust.  Put  your  trust  in  the  Lord  of 
hosts,  he  is  your  strong  tower,  he  is  your  helper  and  defense,  he 
will  guide  and  strengthen  the  arm  of  flesh,  and  scatter  your  ene 
mies  like  chaff. 

SELECTMAN.   Let  us  not  hesitate. 

CITIZEN.  Not  a  single  moment; — 'tis  like  to  prove  a  mortal 
strife,  a  never-ending  contest. 

MINISTER.  Delays  may  be  dangerous. — Go  and  awake  your 
brethren  that  sleep; — rouse  them  up  from  their  lethargy  and 


312  Representative  Plays 

supineness,  and  join,  with  confidence,  temporal  with  spiritual 
weapons.  Perhaps  they  be  now  landing,  and  this  moment,  this 
very  moment,  may  be  the  last  of  your  liberty.  Prepare  your 
selves — be  ready — stand  fast — ye  know  not  the  day  nor  the 
hour.  May  the  Ruler  of  all  send  us  liberty  and  life.  Adieu ! 
my  friends.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.   In  a  street  in  Boston. 

Frequent  town-meetings  and  consultations  amongst  the  inhabitants; 

— LORD  BOSTON  arrives  with  the  forces  and  ships; — lands  and 

fortifies  Boston. 

WHIG  and  TORY. 

WHIG.  I  have  said  and  done  all  that  man  could  say  or  do. — 
'Tis  wrong,  I  insist  upon  it,  and  time  will  show  it,  to  suffer  them 
to  take  possession  of  Castle  William  and  fortify  Boston  Neck. 

TORY.  I  cannot  see,  good  sir,  of  what  advantage  it  will  be  to 
them; — they've  only  a  mind,  I  suppose,  to  keep  their  soldiers 
from  being  inactive,  which  may  prejudice  their  health. 

WHIG.  I  wish  it  may  prove  so,  I  would  very  gladly  confess 
your  superior  knowledge  in  military  manceuvres;  but  till  then, 
suffer  me  to  tell  you,  it's  a  stroke  the  most  fatal  to  us, — no  less, 
sir,  but  to  cut  off  the  communication  between  the  town  and 
country,  making  prisoners  of  us  all  by  degrees,  and  give  'em  an 
opportunity  of  making  excursions,  and  in  a  short  time  subdue 
us  without  resistance. 

TORY.    I  think  your  fears  are  groundless. 

WHIG.  Sir,  my  reason  is  not  to  be  trifled  with.  Do  you  not 
see  or  hear  ev'ry  day  of  insults  and  provocations  to  the  peaceable 
inhabitants?  This  is  only  a  prelude.  Can  men  of  spirit  bear 
forever  with  such  usage?  I  know  not  what  business  they  have 
here  at  all. 

TORY.    I  suppose  they're  come  to  protect  us. 

WHIG.  Damn  such  protectors,  such  cut- throat  villains;  pro 
tect  us?  from  what?  from  whom? — 

TORY.  Nay,  sir,  I  know  not  their  business; — let  us  yet  bear 
with  them  till  we  know  the  success  of  the  petition  from  the 
Congress; — if  unfavourable,  then  it  will  be  our  time. 

WHIG.  Then,  I  fear,  it  will  be  too  late;  all  that  time  we  lose, 
and  they  gain  ground ;  I  have  no  notion  of  trusting  to  the  success 
of  petitions,  waiting  twelve  months  for  no  answer  at  all.  Our 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  313 

assemblies  have  petitioned  often,  and  as  often  in  vain;  't  would  be 
a  miracle  in  these  days  to  hear  of  an  American  petition  being 
granted ;  their  omnipotences,  their  demi-godships  (as  they  think 
themselves)  no  doubt  think  it  too  great  a  favour  done  us  to 
throw  our  petitions  under  their  table,  much  less  vouchsafe  to 
read  them. 

TORY.  You  go  too  far; — the  power  of  King,  Lords  and  Com 
mons  is  uncontroulable. 

WHIG.  With  respect  to  tyrannising  they  would  make  it  so, 
if  they  could,  I  know,  but  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  said  and  done 
first;  we  have  more  than  half  the  bargain  to  make. 

TORY.  Sure  you  would  not  go  to  dispute  by  arms  with  Great- 
Britain. 

WHIG.   Sure  I  would  not  suffer  you  to  pick  my  pocket,  sir. 

TORY.    If  I  did,  the  law  is  open  for  you — 

WHIG.  I  have  but  a  poor  opinion  of  law,  when  the  devil  sits 
judge. 

TORY.  What  would  you  do  then,  sir,  if  I  was  to  pick  your 
pocket? 

WHIG.    Break  your  head,  sir — 

TORY.   Sure  you  don't  mean  as  you  say,  sir — 

WHIG.    I  surely  do — try  me,  sir — 

TORY.  Excuse  me,  sir,  I  am  not  of  your  mind,  I  would  avoid 
every  thing  that  has  the  appearance  of  rashness. — Great-Britain's 
power,  sir — 

WHIG.  Great-Britain's  power,  sir,  is  too  much  magnified, 
't  will  soon  grow  weak,  by  endeavouring  to  make  slaves  of 
American  freemen;  we  are  not  Africans  yet,  neither  bond-slaves. 
— You  would  avoid  and  discourage  every  thing  that  has  the 
appearance  of  patriotism,  you  mean. — 

TORY.   Who?  me,  sir? 

WHIG.  Yes,  you,  sir; — you  go  slyly  pimping,  spying  and 
sneaking  about,  cajoling  the  ignorant,  and  insinuating  bugbear 
notions  of  Great-Britain's  mighty  power  into  weak  people's  ears, 
that  we  may  tamely  give  all  up,  and  you  be  rewarded,  perhaps, 
with  the  office  of  judge  of  the  admiralty,  or  continental  hang 
man,  for  ought  I  know. 

TORY.   Who?  me,  sir? 

WHIG.  Aye,  you,  sir; — and  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  you've  been 
long  suspected — 

TORY.     Of  what,  sir? 


314  Representative  Plays 

WHIG.   For  a  rank  Tory,  sir. 

TORY.   What  mean  you,  sir? 

WHIG.  I  repeat  it  again — suspected  to  be  an  enemy  to  your 
country. 

TORY.    By  whom,  sir?    Can  you  show  me  an  instance? 

WHIG.  From  your  present  discourse  I  suspect  you — and  from 
ybur  connections  and  artful  behaviour  all  suspect  you. 

TORY.   Can  you  give  me  a  proof? 

WHIG.  Not  a  point  blank  proof,  as  to  my  own  knowledge; 
you're  so  much  of  a  Jesuit,  you  have  put  it  out  of  my  power; — 
but  strong  circumstances  by  information,  such  as  amount  to  a 
proof  in  the  present  case,  sir,  I  can  furnish  you  with. 

TORY.    Sir,  you  may  be  mistaken. 

WHIG.    'Tis  not  possible,  my  informant  knows  you  too  well. 

TORY.   Who  is  your  informant,  sir? 

WHIG.  A  gentleman,  sir;  and  if  you'll  give  yourself  the  trouble 
to  walk  with  me,  I'll  soon  produce  him. 

TORY.    Another  time;    I  cannot  stay  now; — 'tis  dinner  time. 

WHIG.   That's  the  time  to  find  him 

TORY.    I  cannot  stay  now. 

WHIG.  We'll  call  at  your  house  then. 

TORY.    I  dine  abroad,  sir. 

WHIG.  Be  gone,  you  scoundrel!  I'll  watch  your  waters; 
'tis  time  to  clear  the  land  of  such  infernal  vermin. 

[Exeunt  both  different  ways. 

SCENE  IV.   In  Boston,  while  the  Regulars  were  flying  from 
Lexington. 

LORD  BOSTON  surrounded  by  his  guards  and  a  few  officers. 

LORD  BOSTON.  If  Colonel  Smith  succeeds  in  his  embassy, 
and  I  think  there's  no  doubt  of  it,  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  this 
ev'ning,  I  expect,  of  having  my  friends  Hancock  and  Adams's 
good  company;  I'll  make  each  of  them  a  present  of  a  pair  of 
handsome  iron  ruffles,  and  Major  Provost  shall  provide  a  suit 
able  entertainment  for  them  in  his  apartment. 

OFFICER.  Sure  they'll  not  be  so  unpolite  as  to  refuse  your 
Excellency's  kind  invitation. 

LORD  BOSTON.  Shou'd  they,  Colonel  Smith  and  Major  Pit- 
cairn  have  my  orders  to  make  use  of  all  their  rhetoric  and  the 
persuasive  eloquence  of  British  thunder. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  315 

Enter  a  MESSENGER  in  haste. 

MESSENGER.   I  bring  your  Excellency  unwelcome  tidings — 

LORD  BOSTON.    For  heaven's  sake !  from  what  quarter? 

MESSENGER.   From  Lexington  plains. 

LORD  BOSTON.   'Tis  impossible! 

MESSENGER.  Too  true,  sir. 

LORD  BOSTON.   Say — what  is  it?     Speak  what  you  know.     » 

MESSENGER.   Colonel  Smith  is  defeated,  and  fast  retreating. 

LORD  BOSTON.  Good  God ! — What  does  he  say?    Mercy  on  me ! 

MESSENGER.   They're  flying  before  the  enemy. 

LORD  BOSTON.  Britons  turn  their  backs  before  the  Rebels! — 
The  Rebels  put  Britons  to  flight? — Said  you  not  so? 

MESSENGER.  They  are  routed,  sir; — they  are  flying  this 
instant; — the  Provincials  are  numerous,  and  hourly  gaining 
strength; — they  have  nearly  surrounded  our  troops.  A  rein 
forcement,  sir — a  timely  succour  may  save  the  shatter'd  remnant 
Speedily!  speedily,  sir!  or  they're  irretrievably  lost! 

LORD  BOSTON.  Good  God!  What  does  he  say?  Can  it  be 
possible? 

MESSENGER.    Lose  no  time,  sir. 

LORD  BOSTON.    What  can  I  do? — Oh  dear! 

OFFICER.  Draw  off  a  detachment — form  a  brigade;  prepare 
part  of  the  train;  send  for  Lord  Percy;  let  the  drums  beat  to 
arms. 

LORD  BOSTON.  Aye,  do,  Captain;  you  know  how,  better  than 
I.  (Exit  OFFICER.)  Did  the  Rebels  dare  to  fire  on  the  king's 
troops?  Had  they  the  courage?  Guards,  keep  round  me. 

MESSENGER.  They're  like  lions;  they  have  killed  many  of 
our  bravest  officers  and  men;  and  if  not  checked  instantly,  will 
totally  surround  them,  and  make  the  whole  prisoners.  This  is 
no  time  to  parley,  sir. 

LORD  BOSTON.     No,  indeed;  what  will  become  of  me? 

Enter  EARL  PERCY. 

EARL  PERCY.   Your  orders,  sir. 

LORD  BOSTON.  Haste,  my  good  Percy,  immediately  take 
command  of  the  brigade  of  reinforcement,  and  fly  to  the  assis 
tance  of  poor  Smith ! — Lose  no  time,  lest  they  be  all  cut  off,  and 
the  Rebels  improve  their  advantage,  and  be  upon  us;  and  God 
knows  what  quarter  they'll  give. — Haste,  my  noble  Earl! — 
Speedily! — Speedily! — Where's  my  guard? 


316  Representative  Plays 

EARL  PERCY.     I'm  gone,  sir. 

[Exeunt  PERCY  and  OFFICERS — drums  beating  to  arms. 

LORD  BOSTON.  What  means  this  flutt'ring  round  my  heart? 
this  unusual  chilness?  Is  it  fear?  No,  it  cannot  be,  it  must 
proceed  from  my  great  anxiety,  my  perturbation  of  mind  for  the 
fate  of  my  countrymen.  A  drowsiness  hangs  o'er  my  eyelids; — 
fain  would  I  repose  myself  a  short  time; — but  I  must  not; — I 
must  wait; — I'll  to  the  top  of  yon  eminence, — there  I  shall  be 
safer.  Here  I  cannot  stay; — there  I  may  behold  something 
favourable  to  calm  this  tumult  in  my  breast. — But,  alas!  I 
fear — Guards,  attend  me.  [Exeunt  LORD  BOSTON  and  GUARDS. 

SCENE  V.  LORD  BOSTON  and  GUARDS  on  a  hill  in  Boston,  that 
overlooks  Charlestown. 

LORD  BOSTON.  Clouds  of  dust  and  smoke  intercept  my  sight; 
I  cannot  see;  I  hear  the  noise  of  cannon — Percy's  cannon — 
Grant  him  success! 

OFFICER  OF  GUARD.  Methinks,  sir,  I  see  British  colours  waving. 

LORD  BOSTON.  Some  ray  of  hope. — Have  they  got  so  near? — 
Captain,  keep  a  good  lookout;  tell  me  every  thing  you  see.  My 
eyes  are  wondrous  dim. 

OFFICER.  The  two  brigades  have  join'd — Now  Admiral  Tomb 
stone  bellows  his  lower  tier  on  the  Provincials.  How  does  your 
Excellency? 

LORD  BOSTON.  Right; — more  hope  still. — I'm  bravely  to  what 
I  was.  Which  way  do  our  forces  tend? 

OFFICER.  I  can  distinguish  nothing  for  a  certainty  now;  such 
smoke  and  dust! 

LORD  BOSTON.   God  grant  Percy  courage! 

OFFICER.   His  ancestors  were  brave,  sir. 

LORD  BOSTON.  Aye,  that's  no  rule — no  rule,  Captain;  so 
were  mine. — A  heavy  firing  now. — The  Rebels  must  be  very 
numerous — 

OFFICER.  They're  like  caterpillars;  as  numerous  as  the 
locusts  of  Egypt. 

LORD  BOSTON.   Look  out,  Captain,  God  help  you,  look  out. 

OFFICER.     I  do,  sir. 

LORD  BOSTON.  What  do  you  see  now?  Hark!  what  dreadful 
noise ! 

ONE  OF  THE  GUARD.    [Aside.]    How  damn'd  afraid  he  is. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  317 

ANOTHER  OF  THE  GUARD.  [Aside.]  He's  one  of  your  chimney 
corner  Generals — an  old  granny. 

OFFICER.  If  I  mistake  not,  our  troops  are  fast  retreating;  their 
fire  slackens;  the  noise  increases. 

LORD  BOSTON.     Oh,  Captain,  don't  say  so! 

OFFICER.  Tis  true,  sir,  they're  running — the  enemy  shout 
victory. 

LORD  BOSTON.   Upon  your  honour? — say — 

OFFICER.  Upon  my  honour,  sir,  they're  flying  t'wards  Charles- 
town.  Percy's  beat; — I'm  afraid  he's  lost  his  artillery. 

LORD  BOSTON.  Then  'tis  all  over — the  day  is  lost — what  more 
can  we  do? 

OFFICER.  We  may,  with  the  few  troops  left  in  Boston,  yet 
afford  them  some  succour,  and  cover  their  retreat  across  the 
water;  'tis  impossible  to  do  more. 

LORD  BOSTON.  Go  instantly;  I'll  wait  your  return.  Try  your 
utmost  to  prevent  the  Rebels  from  crossing.  Success  attend  you, 
my  dear  Captain,  God  prosper  you!  [Exit  OFFICER.]  Alas! 
alas!  my  glory's  gone;  my  honour's  stain'd.  My  dear  guards, 
don't  leave  me,  and  you  shall  have  plenty  of  porter  and  sour- 
crout. 

SCENE  VI.  ROGER  and  DICK,  two  shepherds  near  Lexington,  after 
the  defeat  and  flight  of  the  Regulars. 

ROGER.  Whilst  early  looking,  Dick,  ere  the  sun  was  seen 
to  tinge  the  brow  of  the  mountain,  for  my  flock  of  sheep,  nor 
dreaming  of  approaching  evil,  suddenly  mine  eyes  beheld  from 
yon  hill  a  cloud  of  dust  arise  at  a  small  distance;  the  intermediate 
space  were  thick  set  with  laurels,  willows,  evergreens,  and  bushes 
of  various  kinds,  the  growth  of  wild  nature,  and  which  hid  the 
danger  from  my  eyes,  thinking  perchance  my  flock  had  thither 
stray'd;  I  descended,  and  straight  onward  went;  but,  Dick, 
judge  you  my  thoughts  at  such  a  disappointment:  Instead  of 
my  innocent  flock  of  sheep,  I  found  myself  almost  encircled  by  a 
herd  of  ravenous  British  wolves. 

DICK.  Dangerous  must  have  been  your  situation,  Roger, 
whatever  were  your  thoughts. 

ROGER.  I  soon  discovered  my  mistake;  finding  a  hostile 
appearance,  I  instantly  turn'd  myself  about,  and  fled  to  alarm 
the  shepherds. 


3i 8  Representative  Plays 

DICK.    Did  they  pursue  you? 

ROGER.  They  did ;  but  having  the  start,  and  being  acquainted 
with  the  by-ways,  I  presently  got  clear  of  their  voracious  jaws. 

DICK.  A  lucky  escape,  indeed,  Roger;  and  what  route  did  they 
take  after  that? 

ROGER.  Onwards,  t'wards  Lexington,  devouring  geese,  cattle 
and  swine,  with  fury  and  rage,  which,  no  doubt,  was  increased  by 
their  disappointment;  and  what  may  appear  strange  to  you, 
Dick  (tho'  no  more  strange  than  true),  is,  they  seem'd  to  be 
possessed  of  a  kind  of  brutish  music,  growling  something  like  our 
favourite  tune  Yankee  Doodle  (perhaps  in  ridicule),  till  it  were 
almost  threadbare,  seeming  vastly  pleased  (monkey-like)  with 
their  mimickry,  as  tho'  it  provoked  us  much. 

DICK.  Nature,  Roger,  has  furnish'd  some  brute  animals  with 
voices,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  with  organs  of  sound  that 
nearly  resemble  the  human.  I  have  heard  of  crocodiles  weeping 
like  a  child,  to  decoy  the  unwary  traveller,  who  is  no  sooner 
within  their  reach,  but  they  seize  and  devour  instantly. 

ROGER.  Very  true,  Dick,  I  have  read  of  the  same;  and  these 
wolves,  being  of  the  canine  breed,  and  having  the  properties  of 
blood-hounds,  no  doubt  are  possess'd  of  a  more  acute  sense  of 
smelling,  more  reason,  instinct,  sagacity,  or  what  shall  I  call  it? 
than  all  other  brutes.  It  might  have  been  a  piece  of  cunning  of 
theirs,  peculiar  to  them,  to  make  themselves  pass  for  shepherds, 
and  decoy  our  flocks;  for,  as  you  know,  Dick,  all  our  shepherds 
both  play  and  sing  Yankee  Doodle,  our  sheep  and  lambs  are  as 
well  acquainted  with  that  tune  as  ourselves,  and  always  make 
up  to  us  whene'er  they  hear  the  sound. 

DICK.  Yes,  Roger;  and  now  you  put  me  in  mind  of  it  I'll  tell 
you  of  something  surprising  in  my  turn :  I  have  an  old  ram  and 
an  old  ewe,  that,  whenever  they  sing  Yankee  Doodle  together, 
a  skilful  musician  can  scarcely  distinguish  it  from  the  bass  and 
tenor  of  an  organ. 

ROGER.  Surprising  indeed,  Dick,  nor  do  I  in  the  least  doubt  it; 
and  why  not,  as  well  as  Balaam's  ass,  speak?  and  I  might  add, 
many  other  asses,  now-a-days;  and  yet,  how  might  that  music 
be  improved  by  a  judicious  disposition  of  its  various  parts,  by 
the  addition  of  a  proper  number  of  sheep  and  young  lambs; 
't  would  then  likewise  resemble  the  counter,  counter  tenor,  treble, 
and  finest  pipes  of  an  organ,  and  might  be  truly  called  nature's 
organ ;  methinks,  Dick,  I  could  forever  sit  and  hear  such  music, 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  319 

Where  all  the  parts  in  complication  roll, 
And  with  its  charming  music  feast  the  soul! 

DICK.  Delightful,  indeed;  I'll  attempt  it  with  what  little  skill 
I  have  in  music;  we  may  then  defy  these  wolves  to  imitate  it, 
and  thereby  save  our  flocks:  I  am  well  convinced,  Roger,  these 
wolves  intended  it  rather  as  a  decoy  than  by  way  of  ridicule, 
because  they  live  by  cunning  and  deception;  besides,  they  could 
never  mean  to  ridicule  a  piece  of  music,  a  tune,  of  which  such 
brutes  cannot  be  supposed  to  be  judges,  and,  which  is  allowed 
by  the  best  masters  of  music  to  be  a  composition  of  the  most  sub 
lime  kind,  and  would  have  done  honour  to  a  Handel  or  a  Correl- 
lius.  Well,  go  on,  Roger,  I  long  to  hear  the  whole. 

ROGER.  When  they  came  to  Lexington,  where  a  flock  of  our 
innocent  sheep  and  young  lambs,  as  usual,  were  feeding  and 
sporting  on  the  plain,  these  dogs  of  violence  and  rapine  with 
haughty  stride  advanc'd,  and  berated  them  in  a  new  and  unheard 
of  language  to  us. 

DICK.    I  suppose  learn'd  at  their  own  fam'd  universities — 

ROGER.  No  doubt;  they  had  teachers  among  them — two  old 
wolves  their  leaders,  not  unlike  in  features  to  Smith  and  Pitcairn, 
as  striving  to  outvie  each  other  in  the  very  dregs  of  brutal  elo 
quence,  and  more  than  Billingsgate  jargon,  howl'd  in  their  ears 
such  a  peal  of  new-fangled  execrations,  and  hell-invented  oratory, 
till  that  day  unheard  in  New-England,  as  struck  the  whole  flock 
with  horror,  and  made  them  for  a  while  stand  aghast,  as  tho' 
all  the  wolves  in  the  forest  had  broke  loose  upon  them. 

DICK.   Oh,  shocking! — Roger,  go  on. 

ROGER.  Not  content  with  this,  their  murdering  leaders,  with 
premeditated  malice,  keen  appetite,  and  without  provocation, 
gave  the  howl  for  the  onset,  when  instantly  the  whole  herd,  as  if 
the  devil  had  entered  into  them,  ran  violently  down  the  hill,  and 
fixed  their  talons  and  jaws  upon  them,  and  as  quick  as  lightning 
eight  innocent  young  lambs  fell  a  sacrifice  to  their  fury,  and  vic 
tims  to  their  rapacity;  the  very  houses  of  our  God  were  no  longer 
a  sanctuary ;  many  they  tore  to  pieces,  and  some  at  the  very  foot 
of  the  altar;  others  were  dragged  out  as  in  a  wanton,  gamesome 
mood. 

DICK.  Barbarity  inexpressible!  more  than  savage  cruelty!  I 
hope  you'll  make  their  master  pay  for  'em;  there  is  a  law  of  this 
province,  Roger,  which  obliges  the  owner  of  such  dogs  to  pay  for 
the  mischief  they  do. 


32O  Representative  Plays 

ROGER.  I  know  it,  Dick;  he  shall  pay,  never  fear,  and  that 
handsomely  too;  he  has  paid  part  of  it  already. 

DICK.   Who  is  their  master,  Roger? 

ROGER.  One  Lord  Paramount;  they  call  him  a  free-booter; 
a  fellow  who  pretends  to  be  proprietor  of  all  America,  and  says 
he  has  a  deed  for  it,  and  chief  ranger  of  all  the  flocks,  and  pre 
tends  to  have  a  patent  for  it;  has  been  a  long  time  in  the  practice 
of  killing  and  stealing  sheep  in  England  and  Ireland,  and  had 
like  to  have  been  hang'd  for  it  there,  but  was  reprieved  by  the 
means  of  his  friend  George — I  forgot  his  other  name — not 
Grenville — not  George  the  Second — but  another  George — 

DICK.  It's  no  matter,  he'll  be  hang'd  yet;  he  has  sent  his  dogs 
to  a  wrong  place,  and  lugg'd  the  wrong  sow  by  the  ear;  he  should 
have  sent  them  to  Newfoundland,  or  Kamchatka,  there's  no 
sheep  there — But  never  mind,  go  on,  Roger. 

ROGER.  Nor  was  their  voracious  appetites  satiated  there; 
they  rush'd  into  the  town  of  Concord,  and  proceeded  to  devour 
every  thing  that  lay  in  their  way;  and  those  brute  devils,  like 
Sampson's  foxes  (and  as  tho'  they  were  men),  thrice  attempted 
with  firebrands  to  destroy  our  corn,  our  town-house  and  habita 
tions. 

DICK.   Heavens!    Could  not  all  this  provoke  you? 

ROGER.  It  did;  rage  prompted  us  at  length,  and  found  us 
arms  'gainst  such  hellish  mischief  to  oppose. 

DICK.     Oh,  would  I  had  been  there! 

ROGER.  Our  numbers  increasing,  and  arm'd  with  revenge,  we 
in  our  turn  play'd  the  man;  they,  unus'd  to  wounds,  with  hideous 
yelling  soon  betook  themselves  to  a  precipitate  and  confused 
flight,  nor  did  we  give  o'er  the  chase,  till  Phoebus  grew  drowsy, 
bade  us  desist,  and  wished  us  a  good  night. 

DICK.  Of  some  part  of  their  hasty  retreat  I  was  a  joyful 
spectator,  I  saw  their  tongues  lolling  out  of  their  mouths,  and 
heard  them  pant  like  hunted  wolves  indeed. 

ROGER.  Did  you  not  hear  how  their  mirth  was  turn'd  into 
mourning?  their  fury  into  astonishment?  how  soon  they  quitted 
their  howling  Yankee  Doodle,  and  chang'd  their  notes  to  bellow 
ing?  how  nimbly  (yet  against  their  will)  they  betook  themselves 
to  dancing?  And  he  was  then  the  bravest  dog  that  beat  time 
the  swiftest,  and  footed  Yankee  Doodle  the  nimblest. 

DICK.  Well  pleased,  Roger,  was  I  with  the  chase,  and  glorious 
sport  it  was:  I  oft  perceiv'd  them  tumbling  o'er  each  other  heels 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  321 

over  head;  nor  did  one  dare  stay  to  help  his  brother — but, 
with  bloody  breech,  made  the  best  of  his  way — nor  ever  stopped 
till  they  were  got  safe  within  their  lurking-holes — 

ROGER.  From  whence  they  have  not  the  courage  to  peep  out, 
unless  four  to  one,  except  (like  a  skunk)  forc'd  by  famine. 

DICK.  May  this  be  the  fate  of  all  those  prowling  sheep-stealers, 
it  behooves  the  shepherds  to  double  the  watch,  to  take  uncommon 
precaution  and  care  of  their  tender  flocks,  more  especially  as 
this  is  like  to  be  an  uncommon  severe  winter,  by  the  appearance 
of  wolves,  so  early  in  the  season — but,  hark! — Roger,  methinks 
I  hear  the  sound  of  melody  warbling  thro'  the  grove — Let's  sit  a 
while,  and  partake  of  it  unseen. 

ROGER.  With  all  my  heart. — Most  delightful  harmony!  This 
is  the  First  of  May;  our  shepherds  and  nymphs  are  celebrating 
our  glorious  St.  Tammany's  day;  we'll  hear  the  song  out,  and 
then  join  in  the  frolic,  and  chorus  it  o'er  and  o'er  again — This 
day  shall  be  devoted  to  joy  and  festivity. 

SONG. 
[TUNE.    The  hounds  are  all  out,  &c.  ] 

i. 

Of  St.  George,  or  St.  Bute,  let  the  poet  Laureat  sing, 
Of  Pharaoh  or  Pluto  of  old, 

While  he  rhymes  forth  their  praise,  in  false,  flattering  lays, 
I'll  sing  of  St.  Tamm'ny  the  bold,  my  brave  boys. 

2. 

Let  Hibernia's  sons  boast,  make  Patrick  their  toast; 
And  Scots  Andrew's  fame  spread  abroad. 
Potatoes  and  oats,  and  Welch  leeks  for  Welch  goats, 
Was  never  St.  Tammany's  food,  my  brave  boys. 

3- 

In  freedom's  bright  cause,  Tamm'ny  pled  with  applause, 
And  reason'd  most  justly  from  nature; 
For  this,  this  was  his  song,  all,  all  the  day  long: 
Liberty's  the  right  of  each  creature,  brave  boys. 

4- 

Whilst  under  an  oak  his  great  parliament  sat, 
His  throne  was  the  crotch  of  the  tree; 
With  Solomon's  look,  without  statutes  or  book, 
He  wisely  sent  forth  his  decree,  my  brave  boys. 


322  Representative  Plays 

5- 

His  subjects  stood  round,  not  the  least  noise  or  sound, 
Whilst  freedom  blaz'd  full  in  each  face: 
So  plain  were  the  laws,  and  each  pleaded  his  cause; 
That  might  Bute,  North  and  Mansfield  disgrace,  my  brave 
boys. 

6. 

No  duties,  nor  stamps,  their  blest  liberty  cramps, 
A  king,  tho'  no  tyrant,  was  he; 

He  did  oft' times  declare,  nay,  sometimes  wou'd  swear, 
The  least  of  his  subjects  were  free,  my  brave  boys. 

7- 

He,  as  king  of  the  woods,  of  the  rivers  and  floods, 
Had  a  right  all  beasts  to  controul; 
Yet,  content  with  a  few,  to  give  nature  her  due: 
So  gen'rous  was  Tammany's  soul!  my  brave  boys. 


In  the  morn  he  arose,  and  a-hunting  he  goes, 
Bold  Nimrod  his  second  was  he. 
For  his  breakfast  he'd  take  a  large  venison  steak, 
And  despis'd  your  slip-slops  and  tea,  my  brave  boys. 

9- 

While  all  in  a  row,  with  squaw,  dog  and  bow, 
Vermilion  adorning  his  face, 
With  feathery  head  he  rang'd  the  woods  wide: 
St.  George  sure  had  never  such  grace,  my  brave  boys? 

10. 

His  jetty  black  hair,  such  as  Buckskin  saints  wear, 
Perfumed  with  bear's  grease  well  smear'd, 
Which  illum'd  the  saint's  face,  and  ran  down  apace, 
Like  the  oil  from  Aaron's  old  beard,  my  brave  boys. 

ii. 

The  strong  nervous  deer,  with  amazing  career, 
In  swiftness  he'd  fairly  run  down; 
And,  like  Sampson,  wou'd  tear  wolf,  lion  or  bear. 
Ne'er  was  such  a  saint  as  our  own,  my  brave  boys. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  323 

12. 

When  he'd  run  down  a  stag,  he  behind  him  wou'd  lag; 
For,  so  noble  a  soul  had  he! 
He'd  stop,  tho'  he  lost  it,  tradition  reports  it, 
To  give  him  fresh  chance  to  get  free,  my  brave  boys. 


With  a  mighty  strong  arm,  and  a  masculine  bow, 
His  arrow  he  drew  to  the  head, 
And  as  sure  as  he  shot,  it  was  ever  his  lot, 
His  prey  it  fell  instantly  dead,  my  brave  boys. 

14. 

His  table  he  spread  where  the  venison  bled, 
Be  thankful,  he  used  to  say; 
He'd  laugh  and  he'd  sing,  tho'  a  saint  and  a  king, 
And  sumptuously  dine  on  his  prey,  my  brave  boys. 

15- 

Then  over  the  hills,  o'er  the  mountains  and  rills 
He'd  caper,  such  was  his  delight; 
And  ne'er  in  his  days,  Indian  history  says, 
Did  lack  a  good  supper  at  night,  my  brave  boys. 

16. 

On  an  old  stump  he  sat,  without  cap  or  hat. 
When  supper  was  ready  to  eat, 
Snap,  his  dog,  he  stood  by,  and  cast  a  sheep's  eye 
For  ven'son,  the  king  of  all  meat,  my  brave  boys. 

17- 

Like  Isaac  of  old,  and  both  cast  in  one  mould, 
Tho'  a  wigwam  was  Tamm'ny's  cottage, 
He  lov'd  sav'ry  meat,  such  that  patriarchs  eat, 
Of  ven'son  and  squirrel  made  pottage,  brave  boys. 

18. 

When  fourscore  years  old,  as  I've  oft'  times  been  told, 
To  doubt  it,  sure,  would  not  be  right, 
With  a  pipe  in  his  jaw,  he'd  buss  his  old  squaw, 
And  get  a  young  saint  ev'ry  night,  my  brave  boys. 


324  Representative  Plays 


As  old  age  came  on,  he  grew  blind,  deaf  and  dumb, 
Tho'  his  sport,  'twere  hard  to  keep  from  it, 
Quite  tired  of  life,  bid  adieu  to  his  wife, 
And  blazed  like  the  tail  of  a  comet,  brave  boys. 

20. 

What  country  on  earth,  then,  did  ever  give  birth 
To  such  a  magnanimous  saint? 
His  acts  far  excel  all  that  history  tell, 
And  language  too  feeble  to  paint,  my  brave  boys. 

21. 

Now,  to  finish  my  song,  a  full  flowing  bowl 
I'll  quaff,  and  sing  all  the  long  day, 
And  with  punch  and  wine  paint  my  cheeks  for  my  saint, 
And  hail  ev'ry  First  of  sweet  May,  my  brave  boys. 

DICK.  What  a  seraphic  voice  !  how  it  enlivens  my  soul  !  Come 
away,  away,  Roger,  the  moments  are  precious. 

[Exeunt  DICK  and  ROGER. 

SCENE  VII.    In  a  chamber,  near  Boston,  the  morning  after  the 
battle  of  Bunkers-Hill. 

CLARISSA.  How  lovely  is  this  new-born  day!  —  The  sun  rises 
with  uncommon  radiance  after  the  most  gloomy  night  my  wearied 
eyes  ever  knew.  —  The  voice  of  slumber  was  not  heard  —  the  angel 
of  sleep  was  fled  —  and  the  awful  whispers  of  solemnity  and 
silence  prevented  my  eye-lids  from  closing.  —  No  wonder  —  the 
terrors  and  ideas  of  yesterday  —  such  a  scene  of  war  —  of  tumult  — 
hurry  and  hubbub  —  of  horror  and  destruction  —  the  direful  noise 
of  conflict  —  the  dismal  hissing  of  iron  shot  in  volleys  flying  — 
such  bellowing  of  mortars  —  such  thund'ring  of  cannon  —  such 
roaring  of  musketry  —  and  such  clashing  of  swords  and  bayonets 
—  such  cries  of  the  wounded  —  and  such  streams  of  blood  —  such  a 
noise  and  crush  of  houses,  steeples,  and  whole  streets  of  desolate 
Charlestown  falling  —  pillars  of  fire,  and  the  convulsed  vortex 
of  fiery  flakes,  rolling  in  flaming  wreaths  in  the  air,  in  dreadful 
combustion,  seemed  as  tho'  the  elements  and  whole  earth  were 
envelop'd  in  one  general,  eternal  conflagration  and  total  ruin, 
and  intermingled  with  black  smoke,  ascending,  on  the  wings  of 
mourning,  up  to  Heaven,  seemed  piteously  to  implore  the  Al- 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  325 

mighty  interposition  to  put  a  stop  to  such  devastation,  lest  the 
whole  earth  should  be  unpeopled  in  the  unnatural  conflict — Too, 
too  much  for  female  heroism  to  dwell  upon — But  what  are  all 
those  to  the  terrors  that  filled  my  affrighted  imagination  the 
last  night? — Dreams — fancies — evil  bodings — shadows,  phan 
toms  and  ghastly  visions  continually  hovering  around  my  pillow, 
goading  and  harrowing  my  soul  with  the  most  terrific  appear 
ances,  not  imaginary,  but  real — Am  I  awake? — Where  are  the 
British  murderers? — where's  my  husband? — my  son? — my 
brother? — Something  more  than  human  tells  me  all  is  not  well: 
If  they  are  among  the  slain,  'tis  impossible. — I — Oh!  [She  cries.] 

Enter  a  NEIGHBOUR  [a  spectator  of  the  battle]. 

NEIGHBOUR.   Madam,  grieve  not  so  much. 

CLARISSA.  Am  I  wont  to  grieve  without  a  cause?  Wou'd 
to  God  I  did; — mock  me  not — What  voice  is  that?  methinks  I 
know  it — some  angel  sent  to  comfort  me? — welcome  then.  [She 
turns  about.]  Oh,  my  Neighbour,  is  it  you?  My  friend,  I  have 
need  of  comfort.  Hast  thou  any  for  me? — say — will  you  not 
speak?  Where's  my  husband? — my  son? — my  brother?  Hast 
thou  seen  them  since  the  battle?  Oh!  bring  me  not  unwelcome 
tidings!  [Cries.] 

NEIGHBOUR.  [Aside.  What  shall  I  say  ?]  Madam,  I  beheld 
them  yesterday  from  an  eminence. 

CLARISSA.    Upon  that  very  eminence  was  I.    What  then? — 

NEIGHBOUR.  I  saw  the  brave  man  Warren,  your  son  and 
brother. 

CLARISSA.  What?  O  ye  gods! — Speak  on  friend — stop — what 
saw  ye? 

NEIGHBOUR.    In  the  midst  of  the  tempest  of  war — 

CLARISSA.  Where  are  they  now? — That  I  saw  too — What  is 
all  this? 

NEIGHBOUR.     Madam,  hear  me — 

CLARISSA.   Then  say  on — yet — Oh,  his  looks! — I  fear! 

NEIGHBOUR.  When  General  Putnam  bid  the  vanguard  open 
their  front  to  the — 

CLARISSA.  Oh,  trifle  not  with  |me — dear  Neighbour! — where 
shall  I  find  them? — say — 

NEIGHBOUR.  [Aside.  Heavens!  must  I  tell  her!]  Madam,  be 
patient — right  and  left,  that  all  may  see  who  hate  us,  we  are 
prepar'd  for  them — 


326  Representative  Plays 

CLARISSA.   What  then? — Can  you  find  'em? — 

NEIGHBOUR.  I  saw  Warren  and  the  other  two  heroes  firm  as 
Roxbury  stand  the  shock  of  the  enemy's  fiercest  attacks,  and 
twice  put  to  flight  their  boasted  phalanx. — 

CLARISSA.  All  that  I  saw,  and  more;  say — wou'd  they  not 
come  to  me,  were  they  well? — 

NEIGHBOUR.   Madam,  hear  me — 

CLARISSA.   Oh !  he  will  not  speak. 

NEIGHBOUR.  The  enemy  return'd  to  the  charge,  and  stumbling 
o'er  the  dead  and  wounded  bodies  of  their  friends,  Warren 
received  them  with  indissoluble  firmness,  and  notwithstanding 
their  battalious  aspect,  in  the  midst  of  the  battle,  tho'  surrounded 
with  foes  on  ev'ry  side — 

CLARISSA.   Oh,  my  Neighbour! — 

NEIGHBOUR.  Madam — his  nervous  arm,  like  a  giant  refresh'd 
with  wine,  hurl'd  destruction  where'er  he  came,  breathing  heroic 
ardour  to  advent'rous  deeds,  and  long  time  in  even  scale  the 
battle  hung,  till  at  last  death  turn'd  pale  and  affrighted  at  the 
carnage — they  ran — 

CLARISSA.    W7ho  ran? 

NEIGHBOUR.     The  enemy,  Madam,  gave  way — 

CLARISSA.  Warren  never  ran — yet — oh!  I  wou'd  he  had — I 
fear — [Cries.] 

NEIGHBOUR.   I  say  not  so,  Madam. 

CLARISSA.   What  say  ye  then?  he  was  no  coward,  Neighbour — 

NEIGHBOUR.    Brave  to  the  last.    [Aside.   I  forgot  myself .] 

CLARISSA.  What  said  you?  O  Heavens!  brave  to  the  last! 
those  words — why  do  you  keep  me  thus? — cruel — 

NEIGHBOUR.  [Aside.  She  will  know  it.  ]  I  say,  Madam,  by  some 
mistaken  orders  on  our  side,  the  enemy  rallied  and  return'd  to 
the  charge  with  fresh  numbers,  and  your  husband,  son,  and 
brother — M  adam — 

CLARISSA.  Stop! — O  ye  powers! — What? — say  no  more — yet 
let  me  hear — keep  me  not  thus — tell  me,  I  charge  thee — 

NEIGHBOUR.  [Aside.  I  can  hold  no  longer,  she  must  know  it.] 
Forgive  me,  Madam — I  saw  them  fall — and  Michael,  the  arch 
angel,  who  vanquish'd  Satan,  is  not  more  immortal  than  they. 
[Aside.  Who  can  relate  such  woes  without  a  tear?] 

CLARISSA.  Oh!  I've  heard  enough — too — too  much  [Cries.] 
yet — if  thou  hast  worse  to  tell — say  on — nought  worse  can  be 
— O  ye  gods! — cruel — cruel — thrice  cruel — cou'd  ye  not  leave 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  327 

me  one — [She  faints,  and  is  caught  by  her  friend,  and  placed 
in  a  chair;  he  rings  the  bell,  the  family  come  in,  and  endeavour  to 
bring  her  to.] 

NEIGHBOUR.  With  surprising  fortitude  she  heard  the  melan 
choly  relation,  until  I  came  to  the  last  close — she  then  gave  me 
a  mournful  look,  lifted  up  her  eyes,  and  immediately  sunk  mo 
tionless  into  my  arms. 

WOMAN.  Poor  soul ! — no  wonder — how  I  sympathize  with  her 
in  her  distress — my  tender  bosom  can  scarcely  bear  the  sight! 
A  dreadful  loss!  a  most  shocking  scene  it  was,  that  brothers 
should  with  brothers  war,  and  in  intestine  fierce  opposition  meet, 
to  seek  the  blood  of  each  other,  like  dogs  for  a  bare  bone,  who  so 
oft  in  generous  friendship  and  commerce  join'd,  in  festivals  of 
love  and  joy  unanimous  as  the  sons  of  one  kind  and  indulgent 
father,  and  separately  would  freely  in  a  good  cause  spend  their 
blood  and  sacrifice  their  lives  for  him. 

NEIGHBOUR.  A  terrible  black  day  it  was,  and  ever  will  be 
remembered  by  New-England,  when  that  vile  Briton  (unworthy 
the  name  of  a  Briton),  Lord  Boston  (curse  the  name!),  whose 
horrid  murders  stain  American  soil  with  blood ;  perish  his  name ! 
a  fratricide!  'twas  he  who  fir'd  Charlestown,  and  spread  desola 
tion,  fire,  flames  and  smoke  in  ev'ry  corner — he  was  the  wretch, 
that  waster  of  the  world,  that  licens'd  robber,  that  blood-stain 'd 
insulter  of  a  free  people,  who  bears  the  name  of  Lord  Boston, 
but  from  henceforth  shall  be  called  Cain,  that  pillag'd  the  ruins, 
and  dragg'd  and  murder'd  the  infant,  the  aged  and  infirm — 
(But  look,  she  recovers.) 

CLARISSA.  O  ye  angels!  ye  cherubims  and  seraphims!  waft 
their  souls  to  bliss,  bathe  their  wounds  with  angelic  balsam,  and 
crown  them  with  immortality.  A  faithful,  loving  and  beloved 
husband,  a  promising  and  filial  son,  a  tender  and  affectionate 
brother:  Alas!  what  a  loss! — Whom  have  I  now  to  comfort  me? 
— What  have  I  left,  but  the  voice  of  lamentation:  [She  weeps.] 
Ill-fated  bullets — these  tears  shall  sustain  me — yes,  ye  dear 
friends!  how  gladly  wou'd  I  follow  you — but  alas!  I  must  still 
endure  tribulation  and  inquietudes,  from  which  you  are  now 
exempt;  I  cannot  cease  to  weep,  ye  brave  men,  I  will  mourn 
your  fall — weep  on — flow,  mine  eyes,  and  wash  away  their 
blood,  till  the  fountain  of  sorrow  is  dried  up — but,  oh!  it  never — 
never  will — my  sympathetic  soul  shall  dwell  on  your  bosoms, 
and  floods  of  tears  shall  water  your  graves;  and  since  all  other 


328  Representative  Plays 

comfort  is  deny'd  me,  deprive  me  not  of  the  only  consolation 
left  me  of  meditating  on  your  virtues  and  dear  memories,  who 
fell  in  defense  of  liberty  and  your  country — ye  brave  men — ye 
more  than  friends — ye  martyrs  to  liberty! — This,  this  is  all  I 
ask,  till  sorrow  overwhelms  me. — I  breathe  my  last;  and  ye 
yourselves,  your  own  bright  spirits,  come  and  waft  me  to  your 
peaceful  abode,  where  the  voice  of  lamentation  is  not  heard, 
neither  shall  we  know  any  more  what  it  is  to  separate. 

Eager  the  patriot  meets  his  desperate  foe 

With  full  intent  to  give  the  fatal  blow; 

The  cause  he  fights  for  animates  him  high, 

His  wife,  his  children  and  his  liberty: 

For  these  he  conquers,  or  more  bravely  dies, 

And  yields  himself  a  willing  sacrifice.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.   Near  Norfolk,  in   Virginia,  on  board  a  man-of-war, 

LORD  KIDNAPPER,  in  the  state-room;  a  boat  appears  rowing 

towards  the  ship. 

SAILOR  and  BOATSWAIN. 

SAILOR.     Boatswain ! 

BOATSWAIN.    Holla. 

SAILOR.    Damn  my  eyes,  Mr.  Boatswain,  but  here's  a  black 
flag  of  truce  coming  on  board. 
<*J3OATSWAIN.   Sure  enough — where  are  they  from? 

SAILOR.  From  hell,  I  suppose — for  they're  as  black  as  so 
many  devils. 

BOATSWAIN.   Very  well — no  matter — they're  recruits  for  the 
Kidnapper. 
V.  SAILOR.   We  shall  be  all  of  a  colour  by  and  by — damn  me — 

BOATSWAIN.  I'll  go  and  inform  his  Lordship  and  his  pair  of 
doxies  of  it;  I  suppose  by  this  time  they  have  trim'd  their  sails, 
and  he's  done  heaving  the  log.  [Exit  BOATSWAIN. 

SCENE  II.   Near  the  state-room. 

BOATSWAIN.  Where's  his  Lordship? 

SERVANT.    He's  in  the  state-room. 

BOATSWAIN.  It's  time  for  him  to  turn  out;  tell  him  I  want  to 
speak  to  him. 

SERVANT.  I  dare  not  do  it,  Boatswain;  it's  more  than  my 
life  is  worth. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  329 

BOATSWAIN.  Damn  your  squeamish  stomach,  go  directly,  01 
I'll  go  myself. 

SERVANT.   For  God's  sake!     Boatswain — 

BOATSWAIN.  Damn  your  eyes,  you  pimping  son  of  a  bitch, 
go  this  instant,  or  I'll  stick  my  knife  in  your  gammons. 

SERVANT.  O  Lord!  Boatswain.     [SERVANT  goes.] 

BOATSWAIN    [solus].     What  the  devil — keep  a  pimp  guard 
here,  better  station  the  son  of  a  bitch  at  the  mast  head,  to  keep 
a  look  out  there,  lest  Admiral  Hopkins  be  upon  us. 
Enter  KIDNAPPER. 

KIDNAPPER.  What's  your  will,  Boatswain? 

BOATSWAIN.  I  beg  your  Lordship's  pardon  [Aside,  But  you 
can  soon  fetch  up  Leeway,  and  spread  the  water  sail  again.],  please 
your  honour,  here's  a  boat  full  of  fine  recruits  along  side  for  you. 

KIDNAPPER.  Recruits,  Boatswain?  you  mean  soldiers  from 
Augustine,  I  imagine;  what  reg'mentals  have  they  on? 

BOATSWAIN.  Mourning,  please  your  honour,  and  as  black  as 
our  tarpawling. 

KIDNAPPER.  Ha,  ha,  well,  well,  take  'em  on  board,  Boatswain, 
I'll  be  on  deck  presently. 

BOATSWAIN.  With  submission  to  your  honour,  d'  ye  see, 
[Scratching  his  head.]  I  think  we  have  gallows-looking  dogs 
enough  on  board  already — the  scrapings  of  Newgate,  and  the 
refuse  of  Tyburn,  and  when  the  wind  blows  aft,  damn  'em,  they 
stink  like  polecats — but  d'  ye  see,  as  your  honour  pleases,  with 
submission,  if  it's  Lord  Paramount's  orders,  why  it  must  be  so, 
I  suppose — but  I've  done  my  duty,  d'  ye  see — 

KIDNAPPER.  Ha,  ha,  the  work  must  be  done,  Boatswain,  no 
matter  by  whom. 

BOATSWAIN.  Why,  aye,  that's  true,  please  your  honour,  any 
port  in  a  storm — if  a  man  is  to  be  hang'd,  or  have  his  throat  cut, 
d'  ye  see — who  are  so  fit  to  do  it  as  his  own  slaves?  especially  as 
they're  to  have  their  freedoms  for  it;  nobody  can  blame  'em, 
nor  your  honour  neither,  for  you  get  them  for  half  price,  or 
nothing  at  all,  d'  ye  see  me,  and  that  will  help  to  lessen  poor 
Owld  England's  taxes,  and  when  you  have  done  with  'em  here, 
and  they  get  their  brains  knock'd  out,  d'  ye  see,  your  honour  can 
sell  them  in  the  West-Indies,  and  that  will  be  something  in  your 
honour's  pocket,  d'  ye  see — well,  ev'ry  man  to  his  trade — but, 
damn  my  impudence  for  all,  I  see  your  honour  knows  all  about 
it — d'  ye  see.  [Exit  BOATSWAIN. 


33O  Representative  Plays 

SCENE  III.   LORD    KIDNAPPER    returns    to  his  state-room;    the 
BOATSWAIN  comes  on  deck  and  pipes. 

All  hands  ahoy — hand  a  rope,  some  of  you  Tories,  forward 
there,  for  his  worship's  reg'ment  of  black  guards  to  come  aboard. 

Enter  NEGROES. 

BOATSWAIN.  Your  humble  servant,  Gentlemen,  I  suppose 
you  want  to  see  Lord  Kidnapper? — Clear  the  gangway  there  of 
them  Tyburn  tulips.  Please  to  walk  aft,  brother  soldiers,  that's 
the  fittest  birth  for  you,  the  Kidnapper's  in  the  state-room,  he'll 
hoist  his  sheet-anchor  presently,  he'll  be  up  in  a  jifftn — as  soon 
as  he  has  made  fast  the  end  of  his  small  rope  athwart  Jenny 
Bluegarter  and  Kate  Common's  stern  posts. 

FIRST  SAILOR.  Damn  my  eyes,  but  I  suppose,  messmate,  we 
must  bundle  out  of  our  hammocks  this  cold  weather,  to  make 
room  for  these  black  regulars  to  stow  in,  tumble  upon  deck,  and 
choose  a  soft  berth  among  the  snow? 

SECOND  SAILOR.  Blast  'em,  if  they  come  within  a  cable's  length 
of  my  hammock,  I'll  kick  'em  to  hell  through  one  of  the  gun  ports. 

BOATSWAIN.  Come,  come,  brothers,  don't  be  angry,  I  suppose 
we  shall  soon  be  in  a  warmer  latitude — the  Kidnapper  seems  as 
fond  of  these  black  regulars  (as  you  call  'em,  Jack)  as  he  is  of  the 
brace  of  whores  below;  but  as  they  come  in  so  damn'd  slow,  I'll 
put  him  in  the  humour  of  sending  part  of  the  fleet  this  winter  to 
the  coast  of  Guinea,  and  beat  up  for  volunteers,  there  he'll  get 
recruits  enough  for  a  hogshead  or  two  of  New-England  rum,  and 
a  few  owld  pipe-shanks,  and  save  poor  Owld-England  the  trouble 
and  expense  of  clothing  them  in  the  bargain. 

FIRST  SAILOR.  Aye,  Boatswain,  any  voyage,  so  it's  a  warm 
one — if  it's  to  hell  itself — for  I'm  sure  the  devil  must  be  better 
off  than  we,  if  we  are  to  stay  here  this  winter. 

SECOND  SAILOR.  Any  voyage,  so  it's  to  the  southward,  rather 
than  stay  here  at  lazy  anchor — no  fire,  nothing  to  eat  or  drink, 
but  suck  our  frosty  fists  like  bears,  unless  we  turn  sheep-stealers 
again,  and  get  our  brains  knock'd  out.  Eigh,  master  cook,  you're 
a  gentleman  now — nothing  to  do — grown  so  proud,  you  won't 
speak  to  poor  folks,  I  suppose? 

COOK.  The  devil  may  cook  for  'em  for  me — if  I  had  any  thing 
to  cook — a  parcel  of  frozen  half-starv'd  dogs.  I  should  never 
be  able  to  keep  'em  out  of  the  cook  room,  or  their  noses  out  of 
the  slush-tub. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  331 

BOATSWAIN.  Damn  your  old  smoky  jaws,  you're  better  off 
than  any  man  aboard,  your  trouble  will  be  nothing, — for  I  sup 
pose  they'll  be  disbursted  in  different  messes  among  the  Tories, 
and  it's  only  putting  on  the  big  pot,  cockey.  Ha,  ha,  ha. 

COOK.  What  signifies,  Mr.  Boatswain,  the  big  pot  or  the 
little  pot,  if  there's  nothing  to  cook?  no  fire,  coal  or  wood  to  cook 
with?  Blast  my  eyes,  Mr.  Boatswain,  if  I  disgrease  myself  so 
much,  I  have  had  the  honour,  damn  me  (tho'  I  say  it  that 
shou'dn't  say  it)  to  be  chief  cook  of  a  seventy-four  gun  ship,  on 
board  of  which  was  Lord  Abel -Marl  and  Admiral  Poke- Cock. 

BOATSWAIN.  Damn  the  liars — old  singe-the-devil — you  chief 
cook  of  a  seventy-four  gun  ship,  eigh?  you  the  devil,  you're  as 
proud  as  hell,  for  all  you  look  as  old  as  Matheg'lum,  hand  a  pair 
of  silk  stockings  for  our  cook  here,  d'  ye  see — lash  a  handspike 
athwart  his  arse,  get  a  ladle  full  of  slush  and  a  handful  of  brim 
stone  for  his  hair,  and  step  one  of  you  Tories  there  for  the  devil's 
barber  to  come  and  shave  and  dress  him.  Ha,  ha,  ha. 

COOK.  No,  Mr.  Boatswain,  it's  not  pride — but  look  'e  (as  I 
said  before),  I'll  not  disgrease  my  station,  I'll  throw  up  my  com 
mission,  before  I'll  stand  cook  for  a  parcel  of  scape  gallows,  con 
vict  Tory  dogs  and  run-away  Negroes. 

BOATSWAIN.  What's  that  you  say?  Take  care,  old  frosty 
face — What?  do  you  accuse  his  worship  of  turning  kidnapper, 
and  harbouring  run-away  Negroes? — Softly,  or  you'll  be  taken 
up  for  a  Whig,  and  get  a  handsome  coat  of  slush  and  hog's  feathers 
for  a  christmas-box,  cockey :  Throw  up  your  commission,  eigh? 
throw  up  the  pot-halliards,  you  mean,  old  piss- to- wind  ward? 
Ha,  ha,  ha. 

COOK.    I  tell  you,  Mr.  Boatswain — I 

BOATSWAIN.  Come,  come,  give  us  a  chaw  of  tobacco,  Cook — 
blast  your  eyes,  don't  take  any  pride  in  what  I  say — I'm  only 
joking,  d'  ye  see — — 

COOK.   Well,  but  Mr.  Boatswain 

BOATSWAIN.  Come,  avast,  belay  the  lanyards  of  your  jaws, 
and  let's  have  no  more  of  it,  d'  ye  see.  [BOATSWAIN  pipes.  ]  Make 
fast  that  boat  along  side  there.  [Exeunt  ev'ry  man  to  his  station. 

SCENE  IV.   LORD  KIDNAPPER  comes  up  on  the  quarter-deck. 
KIDNAPPER.   Well,  my  brave  blacks,  are  you  come  to  list? 
CUDJO.    Eas,  massa  Lord,  you  preazee. 
KIDNAPPER.    How  many  are  there  of  you? 


332  Representative  Plays 

CUDJO.   Twenty-two,  massa. 

KIDNAPPER.  Very  well,  did  you  all  run  away  from  your 
masters? 

CUDJO.   Eas,  massa  Lord,  eb'ry  one,  me  too. 

KIDNAPPER.  That's  clever;  they  have  no  right  to  make  you 
slaves,  I  wish  all  the  Negroes  wou'd  do  the  same,  I'll  make  'em 
free — what  part  did  you  come  from? 

CUDJO.  Disse  brack  man,  disse  one,  disse  one,  disse  one,  disse 
one,  come  from  Hamton,  disse  one,  disse  one,  disse  one,  come 
from  Nawfok,  me  come  from  Nawfok  too. 

KIDNAPPER.   Very  well,  what  was  your  master's  name? 

CUDJO.    Me  massa  name  Cunney  Tomsee. 

KIDNAPPER.    Colonel  Thompson — eigh? 

CUDJO.    Eas,  massa,  Cunney  Tomsee. 

KIDNAPPER.  Well  then  I'll  make  you  a  major — and  what's 
your  name? 

CUDJO.    Me  massa  cawra  me  Cudjo. 

KIDNAPPER.  Cudjo? — very  good — was  you  ever  christened, 
Cudjo? 

CUDJO.     No  massa,  me  no  crissen. 

KIDNAPPER.  Well,  then  I'll  christen  "you — you  shall  be  called 
Major  Cudjo  Thompson,  and  if  you  behave  well,  I'll  soon  make 
yoifa  greater  man  than  your  master,  and  if  I  find  the  rest  of  you 
y  behave  well,  I'll  make  you  all  officers,  and  after  you  have  serv'd 
Lord  Paramount  a  while,  you  shall  have  money  in  your  pockets, 
good  clothes  on  your  backs,  and  be  as  free  as  them  white  men 
there.  [Pointing  forward  to  a  parcel  of  Tories.  ] 

CUDJO.   Tankee,  massa,  gaw  bresse,  massa  Kidnap. 

SAILOR.  [Aside.]  What  a  damn'd  big  mouth  that  Cudjo 
has — as  large  as  our  main  hatch-way 

COOK.  [Aside.]  Aye,  he's  come  to  a  wrong  place  to  make  a 
good  use  of  it — it  might  stand  some  little  chance  at  a  Lord 
Mayor's  feast. 

KIDNAPPER.  Now  go  forward,  give  'em  something  to  eat  and 
drink  there.  [Aside.]  Poor  devils,  they  look  half  starved  and 
naked  like  ourselves. 

COOK.  [Aside.]  I  don't  know  where  the  devil  they'll  get  it; 
the  sight  of  that  fellow's  mouth  is  enough  to  breed  a  famine  on 
board,  if  there  was  not  one  already. 

SAILOR.  Aye,  he'd  tumble  plenty  down  his  damn'd  guts  and 
swallow  it,  like  Jones  swallow'd  the  whale. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  333 

KIDNAPPER.  To-morrow  you  shall  have  guns  like  them  white 
men — Can  you  shoot  some  of  them  rebels  ashore,  Major  Cudjo? 

CUDJO.    Eas,  massa,  me  try. 

KIDNAPPER.  Wou'd  you  shoot  your  old  master,  the  Colonel, 
if  you  could  see  him? 

CUDJO.    Eas,  massa,  you  terra  me,  me  shoot  him  down  dead. 

KIDNAPPER.   That's  a  brave  fellow — damn  'em — down  with 
J  them  all — shoot  all  the  damn'd  rebels. 

"  SERJEANT.    [Aside.]    Brave  fellows  indeed! 

KIDNAPPER.   Serjeant! 

SERJEANT.    I  wait  your  Lordship's  commands. 

KIDNAPPER.  Serjeant,  to-morrow  begin  to  teach  those  black 
recruits  the  exercise,  and  when  they  have  learn'd  sufficiently 
well  to  load  and  fire,  then  incorporate  them  among  the  regulars 
and  the  other  Whites  on  board ;  we  shall  in  a  few  days  have  some 
work  for  'em,  I  expect — be  as  expeditious  as  possible.  [Aside  to 
him.]  Set  a  guard  over  them  every  night,  and  take  their  arms 
from  them,  for  who  knows  but  they  may  cut  our  throats. 

SERJEANT.    Very  true,  My  Lord,  I  shall  take  particular  care. 
[Exit  KIDNAPPER  ;  SERJEANT  and  NEGROES  walk  forward. 

SCENE  V. 

SERJEANT.    Damn  'em,  I'd  rather  see  half  their  weight  in  beef. 

BOATSWAIN.  Aye,  curse  their  stomachs,  or  mutton  either;  then 
our  Cook  wou'dn't  be  so  damn'd  lazy  as  he  is,  strutting  about 
the  deck  like  a  nobleman,  receiving  Paramount's  pay  for  nothing. 

SERJEANT.  Walk  faster,  damn  your  black  heads.  I  suppose, 
Boatswain,  when  this  hell-cat  reg'ment's  complete,  they'll  be 
reviewed  in  Hyde  park? 

BOATSWAIN.  Aye,  blast  my  eyes,  and  our  Chaplain  with  his 
dirty  black  gown,  or  our  Cook,  shall  be  their  general,  and  review 
'em,  for  he  talks  of  throwing  up  his  pot-halliards  commission,  in 
hopes  of  it. 

SERJEANT.   Ha,  ha,  ha. 

COOK.    I  'd  see  the  devil  have  'em  first. 

[Exeunt  SERJEANT,  fife. 

SCENE  VI.   In  the  cabin. 

LORD  KIDNAPPER,  CAPTAIN  SQUIRES,  and  CHAPLAIN. 
KIDNAPPER.   These  blacks  are  no  small  acquisition,  them  and 
the  Tories  we  have  on  board  will  strengthen  us  vastly;    the 


334  Representative  Plays 

thoughts  of  emancipation  will  make  'em  brave,  and  the  encour 
agement  given  them  by  my  proclamation,  will  greatly  intimidate 
the  rebels — internal  enemies  are  worse  than  open  foes. 

CHAPLAIN.  Very  true,  My  Lord ;  David  prayed  that  he  might 
be  preserved  from  secret  enemies. 

KIDNAPPER.  Aye,  so  I've  heard,  but  I  look  upon  this  to  be  a 
grand  manreuvre  in  politics;  this  is  making  dog  eat  dog — thief 
catch  thief — the  servant  against  his  master — rebel  against  rebel 
— what  think  you  of  that,  parson? 

CHAPLAIN.  A  house  divided  thus  against  itself  cannot  stand, 
according  to  scripture — My  Lord,  your  observation  is  truly 
scriptural. 

KIDNAPPER.  Scripture?  poh,  poh — I've  nothing  to  do  with 
scripture — I  mean  politically,  parson. 

CHAPLAIN.  I  know  it  very  well;  sure,  My  Lord,  I  understand 
you  perfectly. 

KIDNAPPER.  Faith  that's  all  I  care  for;  if  we  can  stand  our 
ground  this  winter,  and  burn  all  their  towns  that  are  accessible 
to  our  ships,  and  Colonel  Connolly  succeeds  in  his  plan,  there's 
not  the  least  doubt  but  we  shall  have  supplies  from  England  very 
early  in  the  spring,  which  I  have  wrote  for;  then,  in  conjunction 
with  Connolly,  we  shall  be  able  to  make  a  descent  where  we 
please,  and  drive  the  rebels  like  hogs  into  a  pen. 

CHAPLAIN.  And  then  gather  them  (as  the  scriptures  say)  as 
a  hen  gathereth  her  chickens. 

KIDNAPPER.   True,  Mr.  Scripture. 

CAPTAIN  SQUIRES.  Very  good,  but  you  must  take  care  of  the 
hawks. 

KIDNAPPER.   What  do  you  mean  by  the  hawks,  Captain? 

CAPTAIN  SQUIRES.  I  mean  the  shirt-men,  the  rifle-men,  My  Lord. 

KIDNAPPER.  Aye,  damn  'em,  hawks  indeed;  they  are  cursed 
dogs;  a  man  is  never  safe  where  they  are,  but  I'll  take  care  to  be 
out  of  their  reach,  let  others  take  their  chance,  for  I  see  they 
have  no  respect  to  persons — I  suppose  they  wou'd  shoot  at  me, 
if  I  were  within  their  reach. 

CHAPLAIN.  Undoubtedly,  they  would  be  more  fond  of  you 
than  of  a  wild  turkey;  a  parcel  of  ignorant,  unmannerly  rascals, 
they  pay  no  more  respect  to  a  Lord  than  they  wou'd  to  a  devil. 

KIDNAPPER.  The  scoundrels  are  grown  so  damn'd  impudent 
too,  that  one  can  scarcely  get  a  roasting  pig  now-a-days,  but  I'll 
be  even  with  some  of  'em  by  and  by. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  335 

CHAPLAIN.  I  hope  we  shall  get  something  good  for  our  Christ 
mas  dinner — so  much  abstinence  and  involuntary  mortification, 
cannot  be  good  for  the  soul — a  war  in  the  body  corporal  is  of 
more  dangerous  consequence  than  a  civil  war  to  the  state,  or 
heresy  and  schism  to  the  church. 

KIDNAPPER.  Very  true,  parson — very  true — now  I  like  your 
doctrine — a  full  belly  is  better  than  an  empty  sermon;  preach 
that  doctrine; — stick  to  that  text,  and  you'll  not  fail  of  making 
converts. 

CHAPLAIN.  The  wisest  of  men  said,  there  is  nothing  better, 
than  that  a  man  should  enjoy  that  which  he  hath,  namely,  eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry,  if  he  can. 

KIDNAPPER.  You're  very  right — Solomon  was  no  fool,  they 
say — [He  sings.] 

Give  me  a  charming  lass,  Twangdillo  cries, 
I  know  no  pleasure,  but  love's  sweet  joys. 

CHAPLAIN.  [Sings.] 

Give  me  the  bottle,  says  the  red  face  sot, 

For  a  whore  Pd  not  give  six-pence,  not  a  groat. 

Yet  two  is  better  than  one,  my  Lord,  for  the  scriptures  further 
say,  if  one  be  alone,  how  can  there  be  heat?  You  seem  to  be 
converted  to  that  belief,  for  you  have  a  brace  of  them,  as  the 
Boatswain  says. 

KIDNAPPER.  Ha,  ha.  It's  a  pity  but  you  were  a  bishop,  you 
have  the  scriptures  so  pat — now  I'll  go  and  take  a  short  nap, 
meanwhile;  Captain,  if  any  thing  new  happens,  pray  order  my 
servant  to  wake  me. 

CAPTAIN  SQUIRES.    I  will,  my  Lord.  [Exit  KIDNAPPER. 

CHAPLAIN.  And  you  and  I'll  crack  a  bottle,  Captain;  (bring 
a  bottle,  boy!)  'tis  bad  enough  to  perish  by  famine,  but  ten 
thousand  times  worse  to  be  chok'd  for  want  of  moisture.  His 
Lordship  and  two  more  make  three;  and  you  and  I  and  the 
bottle  make  three  more,  and  a  three-fold  cord  is  not  easily  broken; 
so  we're  even  with  him. 

CAPTAIN  SQUIRES.  With  all  my  heart. — Boy,  bear  a  hand! 

TOM.   Coming,  sir. 

CHAPLAIN.  Tom,  Tom! — make  haste,  you  scoundrel! — fetch 
two  bottles.  I  think  we  can  manage  it. 


336  Representative  Plays 

Enter  TOM  with  the  bottles. 

CHAPLAIN.  That's  right,  Tom. — Now  bring  the  glasses,  and 
shut  the  door  after  you.  [Exit  TOM. 

SCENE  VII.  In  Boston.  A  council  of  war  after 

the  battle  of  Bunker' s-Hill. 

LORD  BOSTON,  ADMIRAL  TOMBSTONE,  ELBOW  ROOM, 
MR.  CAPER,  GENERAL  CLINTON,  EARL  PERCY. 

LORD  BOSTON.  I  fully  expected,  with  the  help  of  the  last 
reinforcement  you  brought  me  over,  and  the  advice  and  assistance 
of  three  accomplish'd  and  experienc'd  Generals,  I  should  have 
been  able  to  have  subdued  the  rebels,  and  gain'd  immortal  laurels 
to  myself — have  return'd  to  Old  England  like  a  Roman  Consul, 
with  a  score  or  two  of  the  rebel  Generals,  Colonels  and  Majors, 
to  have  grac'd  my  triumph. 

ELBOW  ROOM.  You  have  been  vastly  disappointed,  sir — you 
must  not  look  for  laurels  (unless  wild  ones)  nor  expect  triumphs 
(unless  sham  ones)  from  your  own  victories  or  conquests  in 
America. 

LORD  BOSTON.  And  yet,  not  more  disappointed  than  you,  sir — 
witness  your  thrasonical  speeches  on  your  first  landing,  provided 
you  had  but  elbow  room — and  Mr.  Caper  too,  to  bring  over 
Monsieur  Rigadoon,  the  dancing-master,  and  Signor  Rosin, 
the  fiddler  forsooth;  he  thought,  no  doubt,  to  have  country 
danc'd  the  rebels  out  of  their  liberty  with  some  of  his  new  cuts — 
with  his  soft  music  to  have  fascinated  their  wives  and  daughters, 
and  with  some  of  'em,  no  doubt,  to  have  taken  the  tour  of 
America,  with  his  reg'ment  of  fine,  sleek,  prancing  horses,  that 
have  been  feeding  this  six  months  on  codfish  tails;  he  thought 
to  have  grown  fat  with  feasting,  dancing,  and  drinking  tea  with 
the  Ladies,  instead  of  being  the  skeleton  he  now  appears  to  be — 
not  to  mention  any  thing  of  his  letter,  wherein  he  laments  Tom's 
absence;  for1  "had Tom  been  with  him  (he  says)  he  wou'd  have 
been  out  of  danger,  and  quite  secure  from  the  enemy's  shot." 

PERCY.  I  think,  Gentlemen,  we're  even  with  you  now;  you 
have  had  your  mirth  and  frolic  with  us,  for  dancing  "Yankee 
Doodle,"  as  you  called  it,  from  Lexington. — I  find  you  have 
had  a  severer  dance,  a  brave  sweat  at  Bunker's  Hill,  and  have 
been  obliged  to  pay  the  fiddler  in  the  bargain. 

1  See  Burgoyne's  letter. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  337 

CLINTON.  However,  Gentlemen,  I  approve  (at  proper  seasons) 
of  a  little  joking,  yet  I  can  by  no  means  think  (as  we  have  had 
such  bad  success  with  our  crackers)  that  this  is  a  proper  time  to 
throw  your  squibs. 

LORD  BOSTON.  I  grant  you,  sir,  this  is  a  very  improper  time 
for  joking;  for  my  part,  I  was  only  speaking  as  to  my  own 
thoughts,  when  Mr.  Elbow  Room  made  remarks,  which  he  might 
as  well  have  spared. 

ELBOW  ROOM.  I  took  you,  sir,  as  meaning  a  reflection  upon 
us  for  our  late  great  loss,  and  particularly  to  myself,  for  expressing 
some  surprise  on  our  first  landing,  that  you  should  suffer  a  parcel 
of  ignorant  peasants  to  drive  you  before  'em  like  sheep  from 
Lexington ;  and  I  must  own  I  was  a  little  chagrin'd  at  your  seem 
ing  so  unconcern'd  at  such  an  affair  as  this  (which  had  nearly 
prov'd  our  ruin),  by  your  innuendoes  and  ironical  talk  of  accom- 
plish'd  Generals,  Roman  Consuls  and  triumphs. 

LORD  BOSTON.  My  mentioning  accomplished  Generals,  surely, 
sir,  was  rather  a  compliment  to  you. 

ELBOW  ROOM.  When  irony  pass  current  for  compliments, 
and  we  take  it  so,  I  shall  have  no  objection  to  it. 

MR.  CAPER.  The  affair  of  Lexington,  My  Lord  Boston,  at 
which  you  were  so  much  affrighted  (if  I  am  rightly  inform'd), 
was  because  you  then  stood  on  your  own  bottom,  this  of  Bunker's 
Hill  you  seem  secretly  to  rejoice  at,  only  because  you  have  three 
accomplish'd  and  experienc'd  Generals  to  share  the  disgrace  with 
you,  besides  the  brave  Admiral  Tombstone — you  talk  of  dancing 
and  fiddling,  and  yet  you  do  neither,  as  I  see. 

LORD  BOSTON.  And  pray,  sir,  what  did  you  do  with  the  com 
mission,  the  post,  the  Duke  of  Grafton  gave  you,  in  lieu  of  your 
losses  at  Preston  election,  and  the  expenses  of  your  trial  at  the 
king's  bench  for  a  riot,  which  had  emptied  your  pockets? — Why 
you  sold  it — you  sold  it,  sir — to  raise  cash  to  gamble  with. 

ADMIRAL  TOMBSTONE.  Damn  it,  don't  let  us  kick  up  a  dust 
among  ourselves,  to  be  laugh'd  at  fore  and  aft — this  is  a  hell  of 
a  council  of  war — though  I  believe  it  will  turn  out  one  before 
we've  done — a  scolding  and  quarrelling  like  a  parcel  of  damn'd 
butter  whores — I  never  heard  two  whores  yet  scold  and  quarrel, 
but  they  got  to  fighting  at  last. 

CLINTON.  Pray,  Gentlemen,  drop  this  discourse,  consider  the 
honour  of  England  is  at  stake,  and  our  own  safety  depends  upon 
this  day's  consultation. 


338  Representative  Plays 

LORD  BOSTON.  'Tis  not  for  argument's  sake — but  the  dignity 
of  my  station  requires  others  should  give  up  first. 

ELBOW  ROOM.  Sir,  I  have  done,  lest  you  should  also  accuse 
me  of  obstructing  the  proceedings  of  the  council  of  war. 

MR.  CAPER.    For  the  same  reason  I  drop  it  now. 

LORD  BOSTON.   Well,  Gentlemen,  what  are  we  met  here  for? 

ADMIRAL  TOMBSTONE.  Who  the  devil  shou'd  know,  if  you 
don't? — damn  it,  didn't  you  send  for  us? 

LORD  BOSTON.  Our  late  great  loss  of  men  has  tore  up  the 
foundation  of  our  plan,  and  render'd  all  further  attempts  imprac 
ticable — 't  will  be  a  long  time  ere  we  can  expect  any  more  rein 
forcements — and  if  they  should  arrive,  I'm  doubtful  of  their 
success. 

CLINTON.  The  provincials  are  vastly  strong,  and  seem  no 
novices  in  the  art  of  war;  'tis  true  we  gain'd  the  hill  at  last, 
but  of  what  advantage  is  it  to  us? — none — the  loss  of  1400  as 
brave  men  as  Britain  can  boast  of,  is  a  melancholy  consideration, 
and  must  make  our  most  sanguinary  friends  in  England  abate 
of  their  vigour. 

ELBOW  ROOM.  I  never  saw  or  read  of  any  battle  equal  to  it — 
never  was  more  martial  courage  display'd,  and  the  provincials, 
to  do  the  dogs  justice,  fought  like  heroes,  fought  indeed  more  like 
devils  than  men;  such  carnage  and  destruction  not  exceeded  by 
Blenheim,  Minden,  Fontenoy,  Ramillies,  Dettingen,  the  battle 
of  the  Boyne,  and  the  late  affair  of  the  Spaniards  and  Algerines — 
a  mere  cock-fight  to  it — no  laurels  there. 

MR.  CAPER.  No,  nor  triumphs  neither — I  regret  in  particular 
the  number  of  brave  officers  that  fell  that  day,  many  of  whom 
were  of  the  first  families  in  England. 

ADMIRAL  TOMBSTONE.  Aye,  a  damn'd  affair  indeed — many 
powder'd  beaus — petit  maitres — fops — fribbles — skip  jacks — 
macaronies — jack  puddings — noblemen's  bastards  and  whores' 
sons  fell  that  day — and  my  poor  marines  stood  no  more  chance 
with  'em  than  a  cat  in  hell  without  claws. 

LORD  BOSTON.  It  can't  be  help'd,  Admiral ;  what  is  to  be  done 
next? 

ADMIRAL  TOMBSTONE.  Done? — why,  what  the  devil  have  you 
done?  nothing  yet,  but  eat  Paramount's  beef,  and  steal  a  few 
Yankee  sheep — and  that,  it  seems,  is  now  become  a  damn'd 
lousy,  beggarly  trade  too,  for  you  hav'n't  left  yourselves  a  mouth 
ful  to  eat. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  339 

[Aside.]     "Bold  at  the  council  board, 

But  cautious  in  the  field,  he  shunn'd  the  sword.'" 

LORD  BOSTON.    But  what  can  we  do,  Admiral? 

ADMIRAL  TOMBSTONE.  Do? — why,  suck  your  paws — that's  all 
you're  like  to  get.  {Aside.}  But  avast,  I  must  bowse  taught 
there,  or  we  shall  get  to  loggerheads  soon,  we're  such  damn'd 
fighting  fellows. 

LORD  BOSTON.  We  must  act  on  the  defensive  this  winter,  till 
reinforcements  arrive. 

ADMIRAL  TOMBSTONE.  Defensive?  aye,  aye — if  we  can  defend 
our  bellies  from  hunger,  and  prevent  a  mutiny  and  civil  war 
among  the  small  guts  there  this  winter,  we  shall  make  a  glorious 
campaign  of  it,  indeed — it  will  read  well  in  the  American  Chroni 
cles. 

LORD  BOSTON.  I  expect  to  be  recalled  this  winter,  when  I  shall 
lay  the  case  before  Lord  Paramount,  and  let  him  know  your 
deplorable  situation. 

ADMIRAL  TOMBSTONE.  Aye,  do — and  lay  it  behind  him  too; 
you've  got  the  weather-gage  of  us  this  tack,  messmate;  but  I 
wish  you  a  good  voyage  for  all — and  don't  forget  to  tell  him,  the 
poor  worms  are  starving  too,  having  nothing  to  eat,  but  half 
starv'd  dead  soldiers  and  the  ships'  bottoms.  |ylj«fe.]  A  cun 
ning  old  fox,  he's  gnaw'd  his  way  handsomely  out  of  the  Boston 
cage — but  he'll  never  be  a  wolf,  for  all  that. 

MR.  CAPER.  I  shall  desire  to  be  recalled  too — I've  not  been 
us'd  to  such  fare — and  not  the  least  diversion  or  entertainment 
of  any  sort  going  forward  here — I  neither  can  nor  will  put  up 
with  it. 

ADMIRAL  TOMBSTONE.  I  think  we're  all  a  parcel  of  damn'd 
boobies  for  coming  three  thousand  miles  upon  a  wild-goose  chase 
— to  perish  with  cold — starve  with  hunger — get  our  brains 
knock'd  out,  or  be  hang'd  for  sheep-stealing  and  robbing  hen 
roosts. 

LORD  BOSTON.  I  think,  Admiral,  you're  always  grumbling — • 
never  satisfied. 

ADMIRAL  TOMBSTONE.  Satisfied?  I  see  no  appearance  of  it — 
we  have  been  here  these  twelve  hours,  scolding  upon  empty 
stomachs — you  may  call  it  a  council  of  war  (and  so  it  is  indeed, 
a  war  with  the  guts)  or  what  you  will — but  I  call  it  a  council  of 
famine. 


34-O  Representative  Plays 

LORD  BOSTON.  As  it's  so  late,  Gentlemen,  we'll  adjourn  the 
council  of  war  till  to-morrow  at  nine  o'clock — I  hope  you'll  all 
attend,  and  come  to  a  conclusion. 

ADMIRAL  TOMBSTONE.  And  I  hope  you'll  then  conclude  to 
favour  us  with  one  of  them  fine  turkeys  you're  keeping  for  your 
sea  store  [Aside.]  or  that  fine,  fat,  black  pig  you  or  some  of  your 
guard  stole  out  of  the  poor  Negroe's  pen.  As  it's  near  Christmas, 
and  you're  going  to  make  your  exit — you  know  the  old  custom 
among  the  sailors — pave  your  way  first — let  us  have  one  good 
dinner  before  we  part,  and  leave  us  half  a  dozen  pipes  of  Mr. 
Hancock's  wine  to  drink  your  health,  and  a  good  voyage,  and 
don't  let  us  part  with  dry  lips. 

Such  foolish  councils,  with  no  wisdom  fraught, 
Must  end  in  wordy  words,  and  come  to  nought; 
Just  like  St.  James's,  where  they  bluster,  scold, 
They  nothing  know — yet  they  despise  being  told. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.   At  Montreal. 
GENERAL  PRESCOT  and  OFFICER. 

GENERAL  PRESCOT. 

So  it  seems  indeed,  one  misfortune  seldom  comes  alone. — 
The  rebels,  after  the  taking  of  Ticonderoga  and  Chamblee, 
as  I  just  now  learn  by  a  Savage,  marched  immediately  to  besiege 
St.  John's,  and  are  now  before  that  place,  closely  investing  it,  and 
no  doubt  intend  paying  us  a  visit  soon. 

OFFICER.   Say  you  so?  then  'tis  time  to  look  about  us. 

GEN.  PRESCOT.  They'll  find  us  prepar'd,  I'll  warrant  'em, 
to  give  'em  such  a  reception  as  they  little  dream  of — a  parcel  of 
Yankee  dogs. 

OFFICER.  Their  success,  no  doubt,  has  elated  them,  and 
given  'em  hopes  of  conquering  all  Canada  soon,  if  that's  their 
intent. 

GEN.  PRESCOT.  No  doubt  it  is — but  I'll  check  their  career 
a  little. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  341 

Enter  SCOUTING  OFFICER,  with  COLONEL  ALLEN, 
and  other  prisoners. 

SCOUTING  OFFICER.  Sir,  I  make  bold  to  present  you  with  a 
few  prisoners — they  are  a  scouting  detachment  from  the  army 
besieging  St.  John's. 

GEN.  PRESCOT.  Prisoners?  Rebels,  I  suppose,  and  scarcely 
worth  hanging. 

COL.  ALLEN.  Sir,  you  suppose  wrong — you  mean  scarcely 
worth  your  while  to  attempt. 

GEN.  PRESCOT.    Pray,  who  are  you,  sir? 

COL.  ALLEN.  A  man,  sir,  and  who  had  the  honour,  till  now, 
to  command  those  brave  men,  whom  you  call  rebels. 

GEN.  PRESCOT.  What  is  your  name?    If  I  may  be  so  bold? 

COL.  ALLEN.   Allen. 

GEN.  PRESCOT.    Allen? 

COL.  ALLEN.     Yes,  Allen. 

GEN.  PRESCOT.  Are  you  that  Allen,  that  Colonel  Allen  (as 
they  call  him)  that  dar'd  to  take  Ticonderoga? 

COL.  ALLEN.  The  same — the  very  man. 

GEN.  PRESCOT.  Then  rebels  you  are,  and  as  such  I  shall  treat 
you,  for  daring  to  oppose  Lord  Paramount's  troops,  and  the  laws 
of  the  land. 

COL.  ALLEN.  Prisoners  we  are,  'tis  true — but  we  despise  the 
name  of  a  rebel — With  more  propriety  that  name  is  applicable 
to  your  master — 'tis  he  who  attempts  to  destroy  the  laws  of  the 
land,  not  us — we  mean  to  support  them,  and  defend  our  property 
against  Paramount's  and  parliamentary  tyranny. 

GEN.  PRESCOT.  To  answer  you  were  a  poorness  of  spirit  I 
despise;  when  rebels  dare  accuse,  power  that  replies,  forgets 
to  punish;  I  am  not  to  argue  that  point  with  you:  And  let  me 
tell  you,  sir,  whoever  you  are,  it  now  ill  becomes  you  thus  to  talk 
— You're  my  prisoner — your  life  is  in  my  hands,  and  you  shall 
suffer  immediately — Guards!  take  them  away. 

COL.  ALLEN.  Cruel  insult! — pardon  these  brave  men! — what 
they  have  done  has  been  by  my  orders — I  am  the  only  guilty 
person  (if  guilt  there  be),  let  me  alone  suffer  for  them  all.  [Open 
ing  his  breast.]  Here!  take  your  revenge — Why  do  you  hesi 
tate? — Will  you  not  strike  a  breast  that  ne'er  will  flinch  from 
your  pointed  bayonet? 

GEN.  PRESCOT.  Provoke  me  not — Remember  you're  my 
prisoners. 


342  Representative  Plays 

COL.  ALLEN.  Our  souls  are  free! — Strike,  cowards,  strike! — 
I  scorn  to  beg  my  life. 

GEN.  PRESCOT.  Guards!  away  with  them — I'll  reserve  you 
for  a  more  ignominious  death — your  fate  is  fix'd — away  with 
them. 

COL.  ALLEN.  [Going  off.]  Be  glutted,  ye  thirsters  after  human 
blood — Come,  see  me  suffer — mark  my  eye,  and  scorn  me,  if  my 
expiring  soul  confesses  fear — Come,  see  and  be  taught  virtue, 
and  to  die  as  a  patriot  for  the  wrongs  of  my  country. 

[Exeunt  PRISONERS  and  GUARDS. 

SCENE  II.  A  Dungeon. 

COL.  ALLEN.  What!  ye  infernal  monsters!  murder  us  in  the 
dark? — What  place  is  this? — Who  reigns  king  of  these  gloomy 
mansions? — You  might  favour  us  at  least  with  one  spark  of  light 
— Ye  cannot  see  to  do  your  business  here. 

OFFICER.   'Tis  our  orders. 

COL.  ALLEN.  Ye  dear,  ye  brave,  wretched  friends! — now 
would  I  die  for  ye  all — ye  share  a  death  I  wou'd  gladly  excuse 
you  from — 'Tis  not  death  I  fear — this  is  only  bodily  death — but 
to  die  noteless  in  the  silent  dark,  is  to  die  scorn'd,  and  shame  our 
suff'ring  country — we  fall  undignify'd  by  villains'  hands — a 
sacrifice  to  Britain's  outcast  blood-hounds — This,  this  shakes  the 
soul! — Come  then,  ye  murderers,  since  it  must  be  so — do  your 
business  speedily — Farewell,  my  friends!  to  die  with  you  is  now 
my  noblest  claim  since  to  die  for  you  was  a  choice  deny'd — What 
are  ye  about? — Stand  off,  ye  wretches! 

OFFICER.  I  am  order'd  to  lay  you  in  irons.  [They  seize  him.] 
You  must  submit. 

COL.  ALLEN.  What,  do  you  mean  to  torture  us  to  death  with 
chains,  racks  and  gibbets?  rather  despatch  us  immediately — Ye 
executioners,  ye  inquisitors,  does  this  cruelty  proceed  from  the 
lenity  I  shewed  to  the  prisoners  I  took? — Did  it  offend  you  that  I 
treated  them  with  friendship,  generosity,  honour  and  humanity? 
— If  it  did,  our  sufferings  will  redound  more  to  our  honour,  and 
our  fall  be  the  more  glorious — But  remember,  this  fall  will  prove 
your  own  one  day — Wretches !  I  fear  you  not,  do  your  worst ;  and 
while  I  here  lay  suff'ring  and  chain'd  on  my  back  to  the  damp 
floor,  I'll  yet  pray  for  your  conversion. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  343 

OFFICER.    Excuse  us,  we  have  only  obey'd  our  order. 

COL.  ALLEN.   Then  I  forgive  you;   but  pray  execute  them. 

Oh!  my  lost  friends!  'tis  liberty,  not  breath, 
Gives  the  brave  life.     Shun  slavery  more  than  death. 
He  who  spurns  fear,  and  dares  disdain  to  be, 
Mocks  chains  and  wrongs — and  is  forever  free; 
While  the  base  coward,  never  safe,  tho*  low, 
Creeps  but  to  sufferings,  and  lives  on  for  woe! 

[Exeunt  GUARDS. 

SCENE  III.   In  the  Camp  at  Cambridge. 
GENERAL  WASHINGTON,  GENERAL  LEE,  and  GENERAL  PUTNAM. 

GENERAL  WASHINGTON. 

Our  accounts  from  the  Northward,  so  far,  are  very  favourable; 
Ticonderoga,  Chamblee,  St.  John's  and  Montreal  our  troops  are 
already  in  possession  of — and  Colonel  Arnold,  having  penetrated 
Canada,  after  suff'ring  much  thro'  cold,  fatigue  and  want  of  pro 
visions,  is  now  before  Quebec,  and  General  Montgomery,  I  un 
derstand,  is  in  full  march  to  join  him ;  see  these  letters.  [They  read. 

GEN.  LEE.  The  brave,  the  intrepid  Arnold,  with  his  handful 
of  fearless  troops,  have  dar'd  beyond  the  strength  of  mortals — 
Their  courage  smil'd  at  doubts,  and  resolutely  march'd  on, 
clamb'ring  (to  all  but  themselves)  insurmountable  precipices, 
whose  tops,  covered  with  ice  and  snow,  lay  hid  in  the  clouds, 
and  dragging  baggage,  provisions,  ammunition  and  artillery 
along  with  them,  by  main  strength,  in  the  dead  of  winter,  over 
such  stupendous  and  amazing  heights,  seems  almost  unparal- 
lelled  in  history! — 'Tis  true,  Hannibal's  march  over  the  Alps 
comes  the  nearest  to  it — it  was  a  surprising  undertaking,  but 
when  compar'd  to  this,  appears  but  as  a  party  of  pleasure,  an 
agreeable  walk,  a  sabbath  day's  journey. 

GEN.  PUTNAM.  Posterity  will  stand  amazed,  and  be  aston- 
ish'd  at  the  heroes  of  this  new  world,  that  the  spirit  of  patriotism 
should  blaze  to  such  a  height,  and  eclipse  all  others,  should  out 
brave  fatigue,  danger,  pain,  peril,  famine  and  even  death  itself, 
to  serve  their  country;  that  they  should  march,  at  this  inclement 
season,  thro'  long  and  dreary  deserts,  thro*  the  remotest  wilds, 
covered  with  swamps  and  standing  lakes,  beset  with  trees,  bushes 
and  briars,  impervious  to  the  cheering  rays  of  the  sun,  where  are 


344  Representative  Plays 

no  traces  or  vestiges  of  human  footsteps,  wild,  untrodden  paths, 
that  strike  terror  into  the  fiercest  of  the  brute  creation. 

No  bird  of  song  to  cheer  the  gloomy  desert! 
No  animals  of  gentle  love's  enliven! 

GEN.  LEE.  Let  Britons  do  the  like — no — they  dare  not 
attempt  it — let  'em  call  forth  the  Hanoverian,  the  Hessian,  the 
hardy  Ruffian,  or,  if  they  will,  the  wild  Cossacks  and  Kalmucks 
of  Tartary,  and  they  would  tremble  at  the  thought!  And  who 
but  Americans  dare  undertake  it?  The  wond'ring  moon  and 
stars  stood  aloof,  and  turn'd  pale  at  the  sight! 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.  I  rejoice  to  hear  the  Canadians  received 
them  kindly,  after  their  fatigue  furnish'd  them  with  the  neces 
saries  of  life,  and  otherways  treated  them  very  humanely — And 
the  savages,  whose  hair  stood  on  end,  and  look'd  and  listen'd 
with  horror  and  astonishment  at  the  relation  of  the  fatigues  and 
perils  they  underwent,  commiserated  them,  and  afforded  all 
the  succour  in  their  power. 

GEN.  LEE.  The  friendship  of  the  Canadians  and  Savages,  or 
even  their  neutrality  alone,  are  favourable  circumstances  that 
cannot  fail  to  hearten  our  men;  and  the  junction  of  General 
Montgomery  will  inspire  'em  with  fresh  ardour. 

GEN.  PUTNAM.   Heavens  prosper  'em! 

Enter  OFFICER  and  EXPRESS. 

OFFICER.   Sir,  here's  an  Express. 

EXPRESS.    I  have  letters  to  your  Excellency. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.     From  whence? 

EXPRESS.     From  Canada,  sir. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.     From  the  army? 

EXPRESS.    From  the  headquarters,  sir. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.  I  hope  matters  go  well  there. — Had 
General  Montgomery  join'd  Colonel  Arnold  when  you  left  it? 

EXPRESS.  He  had,  sir — these  letters  are  from  both  those 
gentlemen.  [Gives  him  the  letters. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.  Very  well.  You  may  now  withdraw  and 
refresh  yourself,  unless  you've  further  to  say — I'll  dispatch  you 
shortly. 

EXPRESS.     Nothing  further,  sir. 

[Exeunt  OFFICER  and  EXPRESS. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  345 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.  [Opens  and  reads  the  letter  to  GENERALS 
LEE  and  PUTNAM.  ]  I  am  well  pleased  with  their  contents — all  but 
the  behaviour  of  the  haughty  Carleton — to  fire  upon  a  flag  of 
truce,  hitherto  unprecedented,  even  amongst  Savages  or  Alge- 
rines — his  cruelty  to  the  prisoners  is  cowardly,  and  personal  ill 
treatment  of  General  Montgomery  is  unbecoming  a  General — a 
soldier — and  beneath  a  Gentleman — and  leaves  an  indelible  mark 
of  brutality — I  hope  General  Montgomery,  however,  will  not 
follow  his  example. 

GEN.  LEE.  I  hope  so  too,  sir — if  it  can  be  avoided;  it's  a 
disgrace  to  the  soldier,  and  a  scandal  to  the  Gentleman — so  long 
as  I've  been  a  soldier,  my  experience  has  not  furnish'd  me  with  a 
like  instance. 

GEN.  PUTNAM.  I  see  no  reason  why  he  shou'dn't  be  paid 
in  his  own  coin. — If  a  man  bruises  my  heel,  I'll  break  his 
head — I  cannot  see  the  reason  or  propriety  of  bearing  with 
their  insults — does  he  not  know  it's  in  our  power  to  retaliate 
fourfold? 

GEN.  LEE.  Let's  be  good  natur'd,  General — let  us  see  a  little 
more  of  it  first 

GEN.  PUTNAM.  I  think  we  have  seen  enough  of  it  already  for 
this  twelve-months  past.  Methinks  the  behaviour  of  Lord 
Boston,  the  ill  treatment  of  poor  Allen,  to  be  thrown  into  a 
loathsome  dungeon  like  a  murderer,  be  loaded  with  irons,  and 
transported  like  a  convict,  would  sufficiently  rouse  us  to  a  just 
retaliation — that  imperious  red  coat,  Carleton,  should  be  taught 
good  manners — I  hope  to  see  him  ere  long  in  our  College  at 
Cambridge 

GEN.  LEE.  I  doubt;  he'll  be  too  cunning,  and  play  truant — 
he  has  no  notion  of  learning  American  manners;  ev'ry  dog 
must  have  his  day  (as  the  saying  is) ;  it  may  be  our  time  by  and 
by — the  event  of  war  is  uncertain 

GEN.  PUTNAM.  Very  true,  sir;  but  don't  let  us  be  laugh'd  at 
forever. 

Enter  an  OFFICER  in  haste. 

OFFICER.  Sir,  a  messenger  this  moment  from  Quebec  waits 
to  be  admitted. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.     Let  him  enter.  [Exit  OFFICER. 

Enter  MESSENGER. 
GEN.  WASHINGTON.   What  news  bring  you? 


346  Representative  Plays 

MESSENGER.  I  am  sorry,  sir,  to  be  the  bearer  of  an  unpleasing 
tale 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.     Bad  news  have  you? — have  you  letters? 

MESSENGER.  None,  sir — I  came  off  at  a  moment's  warning — 
my  message  is  verbal. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.   Then  relate  what  you  know. 

MESSENGER.  After  the  arrival  and  junction  of  General  Mont 
gomery's  troops  with  Colonel  Arnold's,  Carleton  was  summoned 
to  surrender;  he  disdaining  any  answer,  fir'd  on  the  flag  of 
truce 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.   That  we  have  heard — go  on. 

MESSENGER.  The  General  finding  no  breach  could  be  effected 
in  any  reasonable  time,  their  walls  being  vastly  strong,  and  his 
cannon  rather  light,  determined  to  attempt  it  by  storm — The 
enemy  were  apprized  of  it — however,  he  passed  the  first  barrier, 
and  was  attempting  the  second,  where  he  was  unfortunately 
killed,  with  several  other  brave  officers 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.    Is  General  Montgomery  killed? 

MESSENGER.     He  is  certainly,  sir. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.  I  am  sorry  for  it — a  brave  man — I  could 
wish  him  a  better  fate! 

GEN.  LEE.    I  lament  the  loss  of  him — a  resolute  soldier 

GEN.  PUTNAM.    Pity  such  bravery  should  prove  unsuccessful  * 
such  merit  unrewarded; — but  the  irreversible  decree  of  Provi 
dence! who  can  gainsay? — we  may  lament  the  loss  of  a 

friend,  but  'tis  irreligious  to  murmur  at  pre-ordination.    What 
happ'ned  afterwards? 

MESSENGER.  The  officer  next  in  command,  finding  their 
attacks  at  that  time  unsuccessful,  retired  in  good  order. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.   What  became  of  Colonel  Arnold? 

MESSENGER.  Colonel  Arnold,  at  the  head  of  about  three  hun 
dred  and  fifty  brave  troops,  and  Captain  Lamb's  company  of 
artillery,  having  in  the  mean  time  passed  through  St.  Rocques, 
attacked  a  battery,  and  carried  it,  tho'  well  defended,  with  the 
loss  of  some  men — 

GEN.  PUTNAM.   I  hope  they  proved  more  successful. 

GEN.  LEE.   Aye,  let  us  hear. 

MESSENGER.  The  Colonel  about  this  time  received  a  wound  in 
his  leg,  and  was  obliged  to  crawl  as  well  as  he  cou'd  to  the  hospi 
tal,  thro'  the  fire  of  the  enemy,  and  within  fifty  yards  of  the  walls, 
but,  thro'  Providence,  escap'd  any  further  damage. 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  347 

GEN.  PUTNAM.    Aye,  providential  indeed! 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.    Is  he  dangerously  wounded? 

MESSENGER.    I  am  told  not,  sir. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.    I  am  glad  of  it. — What  follow'd? 

MESSENGER.  His  brave  troops  pushed  on  to  the  second  bar 
rier,  and  took  possession  of  it. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.   Very  good — proceed. 

MESSENGER.  A  party  of  the  enemy  then  sallying  out  from  the 
palace-gate,  attacked  them  in  the  rear,  whom  they  fought  with 
incredible  bravery  for  three  hours,  and  deeds  of  eternal  fame 
were  done;  but  being  surrounded  on  all  sides,  and  overpowered 
by  numbers,  were  at  last  obliged  to  submit  themselves  as  pris 
oners  of  war. 

GEN.  PUTNAM.  Heav'ns!  could  any  thing  prove  more  unlucky? 
such  brave  fellows  deserve  better  treatment  than  they'll  get  (I'm 
afraid)  from  the  inhuman  Carleton. 

GEN.  LEE.  Such  is  the  fortune  of  war,  and  the  vicissitudes 
attending  a  military  life;  to-day  conquerors,  to-morrow  prisoners. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.  He  dares  not  treat  them  ill — only  as 
prisoners.  Did  you  learn  how  those  brave  fellows  were  treated? 

MESSENGER.  It  was  currently  reported  in  the  camp  they 
were  treated  very  humanely. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.   A  change  for  the  better. 

GEN.  PUTNAM.  Produc'd  by  fear,  no  doubt  from  General 
Montgomery's  letter — but  no  matter  from  what  cause. 

GEN.  LEE.    How  far  did  the  remainder  of  the  army  retire? 

MESSENGER.  About  two  miles  from  the  city,  where  they  are 
posted  very  advantageously,  continuing  the  blockade,  and  wait 
ing  for  reinforcements. 

GEN.  LEE.  Did  the  enemy  shew  any  peculiar  marks  of  dis 
tinction  to  the  corpse  of  General  Montgomery? 

MESSENGER.  He  was  interred  in  Quebec,  with  ev'ry  possible 
mark  of  distinction. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.   What  day  did  the  affair  happen  on? 

MESSENGER.   On  the  last  day  of  the  year. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.  A  remarkable  day!  When  was  the  Gen 
eral  interred? 

MESSENGER.     The  second  of  January. 

GEN.  LEE.  What  number  of  men  in  the  whole  attack  was 
killed?  did  you  learn? 

MESSENGER.     About  sixtv  killed  and  wounded. 


348  Representative  Plays 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.  Have  you  any  thing  further  to  communi 
cate? 

MESSENGER.  Nothing,  sir,  but  to  inform  you  they  are  all  in 
good  spirits,  and  desire  reinforcements,  and  heavy  artillery  may 
be  sent  them  as  soon  as  possible. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.  That  be  our  business — with  all  despatch. 
You  may  for  the  present  withdraw.  Serjeant! 

Enter  SERJEANT. 

SERJEANT.   I  wait  your  order,  sir. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.   See  that  the  Messenger  and  his  horse 
want  for  nothing. 
SERJEANT.   I  shall,  sir.      [Exeunt  SERJEANT  and  MESSENGER. 

SCENE  IV. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.  I'll  despatch  an  Express  to  the  Congress. 
This  repulse,  if  I  mistake  not  (or  victory,  as  Carleton  may  call 
it),  will  stand  'em  but  in  little  stead — 'twill  be  only  a  temporary 
reprieve — we'll  reinforce  our  friends,  let  the  consequence  be 
what  it  may — Quebec  must  fall,  and  the  lofty  strong  walls  and 
brazen  gates  (the  shield  of  cowards)  must  tumble  by  an  artificial 
earthquake;  should  they  continue  in  their  obstinacy,  we'll 
arm  our  friends  with  missive  thunders  in  their  hands,  and  stream 
death  on  them  swifter  than  the  winds. 

GEN.  LEE.  I  lament  the  loss  of  the  valiant  Montgomery  and 
his  brave  officers  and  soldiers  (at  this  time  more  especially)  'tis 
the  fortune  of  war,  'tis  unavoidable;  yet,  I  doubt  not,  out  of  their 
ashes  will  arise  new  heroes. 

GEN.  PUTNAM.  Who  can  die  a  more  glorious,  a  more  honour 
able  death  than  in  their  country's  cause? — let  it  redouble  our 
ardour,  and  kindle  a  noble  emulation  in  our  breasts — let  each 
American  be  determined  to  conquer  or  die  in  a  righteous  cause. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.  I  have  drawn  my  sword,  and  never  will 
I  sheathe  it,  till  America  is  free,  or  I'm  no  more. 

GEN.  LEE.  Peace  is  despaired  of,  and  who  can  think  of  sub 
mission?  The  last  petition  from  the  Congress,  like  the  former, 
has  been  disregarded;  they  prayed  but  for  liberty,  peace  and 
safety,  and  their  omnipotent  authoritative  supreme-ships  will 
grant  them  neither:  War,  then,  war  open  and  understood,  must 
be  resolved  on ;  this,  this  will  humble  their  pride,  will  bring  their 


The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny  349 

tyrant  noses  to  the  ground,  teach  'em  humility,  and  force  them  to 
hearken  to  reason  when  'tis  too  late.  My  noble  General,  I  join 
you.  [Drawing  his  sword.]  I'll  away  with  the  scabbard,  and 
sheathe  my  sword  in  the  bosom  of  tyranny. 

GEN.  PUTNAM.  Have  you  not  read  the  speech,  where  frowning 
revenge  and  sounds  of  awful  dread  for  disgrace  at  Lexington  and 
loss  at  Bunker's  Hill  echo  forth?  Not  smiling  peace,  or  pity, 
tame  his  sullen  soul;  but,  Pharaoh-like,  on  the  wings  of  tyranny 
he  rides  and  forfeits  happiness  to  feast  revenge,  till  the  waters 
of  the  red  sea  of  blood  deluge  the  tyrant,  with  his  mixed  host  of 
vile  cut-throats,  murderers,  and  bloody  butchers. 

GEN.  WASHINGTON.  Yet,  finding  they  cannot  conquer  us, 
gladly  would  they  make  it  up  by  a  voluntary  free-will  offering 
of  a  million  of  money  in  bribes,  rather  than  be  obliged  to  relish 
the  thoughts  of  sacrificing  their  cursed  pride  and  false  honour, 
they  sending  over  to  amuse  us  (to  put  us  off  our  guard)  a  score 
or  two  of  commissioners  with  sham  negotiations  in  great  state, 
to  endeavour  to  effect,  by  bribery,  deception  and  chicanery, 
what  they  cannot  accomplish  by  force.  Perish  such  wretches! — 
detested  be  their  schemes! — Perish  such  monsters! — a  reproach 
to  human  understanding — their  vaunted  boasts  and  threats 
will  vanish  like  smoke,  and  be  no  more  than  like  snow  falling 
on  the  moist  ground,  melt  in  silence,  and  waste  away — Blasted, 
forever  blasted  be  the  hand  of  the  villainous  traitor  that  receives 
their  gold  upon  such  terms — may  he  become  leprous,  like  Naa- 
man,  the  Syrian,  yea,  rather  like  Gehazi,  the  servant  of  Elisha, 
that  it  may  stick  to  him  for  ever. 

GEN.  PUTNAM.  I  join  you  both,  and  swear  by  all  the  heroes 
of  New-England,  that  this  arm,  tho'  fourscore  and  four  [Drawing 
his  sword.  ],  still  nervous  and  strong,  shall  wield  this  sword  to  the 
last  in  the  support  of  liberty  and  my  country,  revenge  the  insult 
offer'd  to  the  immortal  Montgomery,  and  brutal  treatment  of 
the  brave  Allen. 

0  Liberty!  thou  sunshine  of  the  heart! 
Thou  smile  of  nature,  and  thou  soul  of  art! 
Without  thy  aid  no  human  hope  cou'd  grow, 
And  all  we  cou'd  enjoy  were  turrfd  to  woe. 

[Exeunt. 


THE  EPILOGUE. 

SPOKEN  BY  MR.  FREEMAN. 

Since  tyrants  reign,  and  lust  and  lux'ry  rule; 
Since  kings  turn  Neroes — statesmen  play  the  fool; 
Since  parli'ment  in  cursed  league  combine, 
To  sport  with  rights  that's  sacred  and  divine; 
Destroying  towns  with  direful  conflagration, 
And  murder  subjects  without  provocation! 
These  are  but  part  of  evils  we  could  name, 
Not  to  their  glory,  but  eternal  shame. 
Petitions — waste  paper — great  Pharaoh  cries, 
Nor  care  a  rush  for  your  remonstrances. 
Each  Jacobite,  and  ev'ry  pimping  Tory, 
Waits  for  your  wealth,  to  raise  his  future  glory: 
Or  pensions  sure,  must  ev'ry  rascal  have, 
Who  strove  his  might,  to  make  FREEMAN  a  slave. 
Since  this  the  case,  to  whom  for  succour  cry? 
To  God,  our  swords,  and  sons  of  liberty! 
Cast  off  the  idol  god! — kings  are  but  vain! 
Let  justice  rule,  and  independence  reign. 
Are  ye  not  men?     Pray  who  made  men,  but  God? 
Yet  men  make  kings — to  tremble  at  their  nod ! 
What  nonsense  this — let's  wrong  with  right  oppose, 
Since  nought  will  do,  but  sound,  impartial  blows. 
Let's  act  in  earnest,  not  with  vain  pretence, ) 
Adopt  the  language  of  sound  COMMON  SENSE,  \ 
And  with  one  voice  proclaim  INDEPENDENCE.  J 
Convince  your  foes  you  will  defend  your  right, 
That  blows  and  knocks  is  all  they  will  get  by  't. 
Let  tyrants  see  that  you  are  well  prepar'd, 
By  proclamations,  sword,  nor  speeches  scar'd ; 
That  liberty  freeborn  breathe  in  each  soul ! 
One  god-like  union  animate  the  whole! 

End  of  the  First  Campaign. 


THE 

POLITICIAN    OUT-WITTED 
By  SAMUEL  Low 


SAMUEL  LOW 
(b.  December  12,  1765) 

Very  little  is  known  about  the  author  of  "The  Politician  Out 
witted,1  a  play  which  I  have  selected  as  representative  of  the 
efforts  of  the  American  drama,  as  early  as  1789,  to  reflect  the  polit 
ical  spirit  of  the  time.  Assiduous  search  on  the  part  of  the  pres 
ent  editor  has  failed  to  bring  to  light  any  information  from  any 
of  the  historical  societies  regarding  Mr.  Low,  except  that  he  was 
born  on  December  12,  1765,  and  that  he  must  have  been,  in  his 
political  sympathies,  an  anti-federalist.  The  reader  who  is  inter 
ested  in  literary  comparisons  might  take  this  play  of  Low's  and 
read  it  in  connection  with  Dunlap's  "The  Father,"  in  which  a 
prologue  gives  a  very  excellent  example  of  the  American  spirit. 
Dunlap's  "Darby's  Return"  might  likewise  be  read  in  connection 
with  "The  Politican  Out-witted,"  inasmuch  as  it  refers  to  the 
Federal  Constitution,  and  to  Washington's  inauguration. 

The  present  play,  which  was  opposed  to  the  Federal  union,  was, 
according  to  some  authorities,  offered  to  the  actors,  Hallam  and 
Henry,  and  was  promptly  rejected  by  them.  There  is  no  record 
of  the  piece  having  thereafter  succeeded  in  reaching  the  theatre. 
It  is  mentioned  both  in  Dunlap  and  in  Seilhamer  in  a  casual 
manner. 

In  the  New  York  Directory,  of  1794,  we  find  Samuel  Low  men 
tioned  as  a  clerk  in  the  Treasury  Department,  and,  in  a  later  Di 
rectory  of  1797-1798,  he  is  referred  to  as  the  first  bookkeeper  in 
the  Bank  of  New  York.2 

1  The/Politician  Out-witted,/a/Comedy,/In  Five  Acts./Written  in  the  Year  1788.; 
By  an  American./"Then  let  not  Censure,  with  malignant  joy,/"The  harvest  of  his 
humble   hope    destroy! "/Falconer's    Shipwreck.      [Colophon. ]/ New- York  i/Printed 
for  the  Author,  by  W.  Ross,  in  Broad-Street,/and  Sold  by  the  Different  Booksellers./ 
M.  DCC.  LXXXIX./ 

2  Through  the  assiduous  researches  of  a  member  of  the  staff  of  the  Americana 
Division  of  the  New  York  Public  Library,  who  has  generously  given  me  permission 
to  use  the  results  of  this  investigation,  there  is  brought  to  light,  in  the  New  York 
Directory  for  1803,  the  name  of  Widow  Ann  Low,  keeper  of  a  boarding-house.  There 
is  a  plausible  theory  framed  by  this  investigator  that,  maybe,  Samuel  Low  died 
during  the  New  York  yellow  fever  epidemic  of  1803,  although  his  name  does  not 
occur  in  the  New  York  Evening  Post  death  lists  for  that  year.    It  may  be  that  our 
Samuel,  as  revealed  in  the  annals  of  the  Dutch  Reform  Church,  y.  i,  p.  273;  v.  32, 
p.  23  (New  York  Geneological  and  Biographical  Society),  married  Anne  Creiger, 
as  recorded  on  April  20,  1797,  and  that  she  may  be  the  "Widow  Ann"  referred  to 
above.    The  Nicholas  Low  mentioned  in  the  Directories  ot  the  time  as  President  of 


354  Representative  Plays 

In  the  preface  to  his  published  poems,  after  the  diffident  man 
ner  of  the  time,  Low  says:  "Many  of  the  pieces  were  written  at  a 
very  early  age,  and  most  of  them  under  singular  disadvantages; 
among  which,  application  to  public  business,  for  many  years  past, 
was  not  the  least;  not  only  because  it  allowed  little  leisure  for 
literary  pursuits,  but  because  it  is  of  a  nature  peculiarly  inimical 
to  the  cultivation  of  poetic  talent.  For  his  own  amusement  and 
improvement  he  has  written — at  the  request  of  his  friends  he 
publishes." 

We  know  that  he  was  a  writer  of  odes,  exhibiting  some  grace 
in  his  handling  of  this  poetic  form.  He  is  also  credited  with  hav 
ing  written  a  long  poem  entitled  "Winter  Displayed,"  in  1794. 
In  1800,  two  volumes  of  poems  appeared  in  New  York,  and 
among  the  subscribers  listed  were  John  Jacob  Astor,  William 
Dunlap,  Philip  Hone,  Dr.  Peter  Irving,  and  members  of  the 
Beekman  and  Schermerhorn  families.1  Examining  the  contents  of 
these  volumes,  one  discovers  that  Samuel  Low,  in  a  social  and  fra 
ternal  way,  must  have  been  a  very  active  member  of  New  York 
society.  On  January  8,  1800,  his  "Ode  on  the  Death  of  W7ashing- 
ton"  was  recited  by  Hodgkinson  at  the  New  York  Theatre. 

At  St.  Paul's  Church,  and  at  Trinity  Church,  his  anthems  and 
odes  were  ever  to  the  fore.  He  must  have  been  a  member  of  the 
Tammany  Society,  or  Columbian  Order,  because  a  "Hymn  to 
Liberty"  was  penned  by  him,  and  sung  in  church  on  the  anni 
versary  of  that  organization,  May  12,  1790. 

His  Masonic  interests  are  indicated  throughout  the  volume  by 
poems  written  especially  for  such  orders  as  the  Holland  Lodge, 
and  the  Washington  Chapter  of  Royal  Arch  Masons.  He  was 
also  asked  to  write  an  epitaph  on  John  Frederick  Roorbach. 

His  interest  in  politics  may  likewise  be  seen  in  several  poems 
written  about  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States;  while  his 
literary  taste  may  be  measured  by  his  tribute  to  Kotzebue,  the 
"second  Shakespeare,"  in  which  occur  the  lines: 

"The  purest,  sweetest  among  modern  bards 
Who  tread  the  difficult  dramatic  path." 

the  Bank  of  New  York,  and  who  was  well-to-do,  must  have  been  the  brother,  or 
some  near  relation.  There  are  many  Samuel  Lows  of  this  period;  one  (1730-1807) 
mentioned  in  the  D.  A.  R.  Lineage,  v.  15;  another  who  married  Margaret  Kip. 
The  nearest  we  get  to  our  Low's  parentage  is  a  reference,  in  the  Reports  of  the  New 
York  Geneological  and  Biographical  Society,  v.  29,  p.  36,  to  John  and  Susanna 
Low,  whose  son,  Samuel,  was  born  December  22,  1765.  Identification  has  yet  to 
be  established. 

1  Poems.  By  Samuel  Low.  In  two  volumes.  New  York:  Printed  by  T.  &  J. 
Swords.  1800. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  355 

Except  for  this,  as  one  of  the  biographical  sources  says,  noth 
ing  is  known  of  Low's  history,  "and  he  is  only  saved  from  absolute 
oblivion  by  his  two  small  volumes  of  poems." 

Yet  "The  Politician  Out-witted"  has  historical  value,  and,  in  its 
dialogue,  exhibits  how  well  Low  had  studied  the  artificial  comedy 
of  Sheridan.  The  construction  of  the  plot  is  mechanical,  but  the 
convictions  of  the  two  opposing  fathers,  on  the  subject  of  the  Con 
stitution,  give  the  play  an  interest  in  character  and  in  viewpoint 
which  is  marked.  It  is  not  a  piece  adapted  to  the  theatre,  there 
being  slight  action  of  a  cumulative  kind;  but,  as  an  example  of 
early  closet  drama,  it  cannot  be  ignored. 


THE 


POLITICIAN    OUT-WITTED, 


COMEDY, 


IN      FIVE      ACTS. 


Written  in  the  YEAR  1788. 


BY  AN    AMERICAN. 


Then  let  not  Onfure,  with  malignant  joy, 
The  harveft  of  his  humble  hope  deftroy!" 

Falconet's  Shipwreck. 


N    E    W    -    Y    O     R    K: 

PRINTED  FOR  THI  AUTHOR,  BY  W.  Ross,   JN  BROAD-STIEIT, 

AND    SOLD    BY     THE     DIP-FKKCMT    BOOKSEL1ERS. 


FAC-SIMILE  TITLE-PAGE  TO  THE  1789  EDITION 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

MEN. 
TRUEMAN. 
OLD  LOVEYET. 

CHARLES  LOVEYET,  engaged  to  HARRIET. 
FRANKTON,  his  Friend. 

WORTHNOUGHT. 

HUMPHRY. 

TOUPEE. 

THOMAS. 

WOMEN. 

HARRIET,  Daughter  to  TRUEMAN. 
MARIA,  her  Friend. 
TABITHA  CANTWELL. 
HERALD. 
DOLLY. 


SCENE — The  city  of  New- York.    Time  of  four  acts  is  one  day,  and 
the  fifth  act  commences  the  second  day. 


THE 

POLITICIAN  OUT-WITTED 
ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  OLD  LOVEYET'S  House. 

Enter  OLD  LOVEYET. 

Ugh,  ugh,  ugh, — what  a  sad  rage  for  novelty  there  is  in  this 
foolish  world!  How  eagerly  all  your  inspectors  in  the  Daily 
Advertiser,  the  New- York  Packet,  and  all  the  long  catalogue  of 
advertisers  and  intelligencers,  catch'd  at  the  news  of  the  day 
just  now  at  the  Coffee-House;  though  a  wise  man  and  a  king  has 
told  them,  there's  nothing  new  under  the  sun.  Ugh,  ugh,  ugh. 

Enter  THOMAS. 

Well,  Thomas,  what's  the  news?  [Eagerly. 

THOMAS.    Nothing  strange,  sir. 

LOVEYET,  That's  more  than  I  can  say,  Thomas,  for  I'm  sure 
'tis  strange  to  hear  so  many  people  praise  this  same  new  Consti 
tution,  as  it  is  call'd.  —  Has  the  New-  York  Journal  been  brought 
to-day? 

THOMAS.   Yes,   sir.  [Fetches  the  newspaper. 

LOVEYET.  Look  if  it  contains  anything  worth  reading, 
Thomas;  anything  in  behalf  of  the  good  old  cause. 

THOMAS.  Yes,  sir,  here's  something  will  suit  your  honour's 
notion  to  a  hair.  [Offers  it  to  LOVEYET. 

LOVEYET.  No,  Thomas,  do  you  read  it, — I'm  afraid  I  shall  cast 
my  eyes  upon  something  that's  on  the  other  side  of  the  question; 
some  wicked  consolidation  scheme  or  another. 

THOMAS.  Why,  you  know,  sir,  there's  never  anything  in  this 
paper  but  what's  on  your  side  of  the  question. 

LOVEYET.  True,  true;  by  my  body,  you're  right  enough, 
Tom. — I  forgot  that;  but  never  mind;  since  you've  got  the 
paper,  do  you  read  it. 

THOMAS.  He  only  wants  me  to  read,  because  he  can't  see  to  do 
it  himself, — he's  almost  as  blind  as  a  bat,  and  yet  he  won't  use 
spectacles  for  fear  of  being  thought  old.  [Aside. 


360  Representative  Plays 

LOVEYET.  Come,  Thomas,  let's  have  it, — I'm  all  ears  to  hear 
you. 

THOMAS.  'Tis  a  pity  you  have  not  a  little  more  eyesight  and 
brains  along  with  your  ears.  [Aside.]  [Reads.]  "Extract  of  a 
letter  from  a  gentleman  in  Boston,  dated  February  the  third, 
1788. — Our  convention  will  pass  the  federal  government  by  a  con 
siderable  majority:  The  more  it  is  examined,  the  more  converts 
are  made  for  its  adoption.  This  you  may  rely  on." 

LOVEYET.  Tis  a  cursed  lie. — Why,  why,  you  confounded 
scoundrel,  do  you  mean  to  ridicule  your  master? 

THOMAS.  I  ask  pardon,  sir;  I  thought  it  was  the  New-York 
Journal;  but  I  see  it  is  Mr.  Child's  Daily  Advertiser. 

LOVEYET.  A  plague  on  his  aristocratic  intelligence! — Begone, 
you  vile  foe  to  American  Liberty,  or  I'll — 

[Exit  THOMAS. 

Enter  TRUEMAN. 

What,  my  friend  Trueman!  well,  what's  the  news,  eigh? 

TRUEMAN.    I  have  not  learn'd  a  single  monosyllable,  sir. 

LOVEYET.  Nothing  concerning  this  same  Constitution  there  is 
so  much  talk  about,  friend  Horace?  A  miserable  Constitution, 
by  the  bye.  If  mine  was  no  better, — ugh,  ugh,  ugh, — I  say,  if — 
ugh,  ugh,  if  my  constitution  was  no  better  than  this  same  political 
one,  I  solemnly  swear,  as  true  as  I  am  this  day,  man  and  boy,  two 
score  and  three  years,  five  months,  eleven  days,  six  hours,  and, 
and, —  [Pulling  out  his  watch.}  fifty-nine  minutes  old;  why,  I 
— I — I  would, — I  don't  know  what  I  wou'd  not  do.  Ugh,  ugh. 

TRUEMAN.  Mr.  Loveyet,  you  run  on  in  such  a  surprising  man 
ner  with  your  narrations,  imprecations,  admirations,  and  interro 
gations,  that,  upon  my  education,  sir,  I  believe  you  are  approach 
ing  to  insanity,  frenzy,  lunacy,  madness,  distraction, — a  man 
of  your  age — 

LOVEYET.  Age,  sir,  age! — And  what  then,  sir,  eigh !  what  then? 
I'd  have  you  to  know,  sir,  that  I  shall  not  have  lived  forty  years 
till  next  spring  twelvemonth,  old  as  I  am;  and  if  my  counte 
nance  seems  to  belie  me  a  little  or  so,  why — trouble,  concern  for 
the  good  of  my  country,  sir,  and  this  tyrannical,  villainous  Con 
stitution  have  made  me  look  so;  but  my  health  is  sound,  sir;  my 
lungs  are  good,  sir,  [Raising  his  voice.] — ugh,  ugh,  ugh, — I  am 
neither  spindle-shank'd  nor  crook-back'd,  and  I  can  kiss  a 
pretty  girl  with  as  good  a  relish  as — ugh,  ugh, — ha,  ha,  ha.  A 


•- 


The  Politician  Out-witted  361 

man  of  five  and  forty,  old,  forsooth!  ha,  ha.  My  age,  truly! — 
ugh,  ugh,  ugh. 

TRUEMAN.  You  talk  very  valiantly,  Mr.  Loveyet;  very 
valiantly  indeed;  I  dare  say  now  you  have  temerity  and  enter 
prise  enough,  even  at  this  time  of  day,  to  take  a  wife. 

LOVEYET.  To  be  sure  I  have.  Let  me  see, — I  shou'd  like  a 
woman  an  inch  or  two  less  than  six  feet  high  now,  and  thick  in 
proportion:  By  my  body,  such  a  woman  wou'd  look  noble  by  the 
side  of  me  when  she  was  entient. 

TRUEMAN.  Oh,  monstrous!  Entient!  an  entient  woman  by 
the  side  of  an  antient  husband!  Most  preposterous,  unnatural, 
and  altogether  incongruous! 

LOVEYET.  Poh,  a  fig  for  your  high-flown  nonsense.  I  suppose 
you  think  if  would  cost  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 

TRUEMAN.  No,  no;  some  clever  young  blade  will  save  you  the 
trouble. 

LOVEYET.  By  my  body,  I  should  love  dearly  to  have  such 
a  partner;  she  would  be  a  credit  to  me  when  she  had  me  under  the 
arm. 

TRUEMAN.   Under  the  thumb,  you  mean. 

LOVEYET.   Under  the  Devil,  you  mean. 

TRUEMAN.  You're  right;  you  might  as  well  be  under  the 
Devil's  government  as  petticoat  government;  you're  perfectly 
right  there. 

LOVEYET.  I'm  not  perfectly  right; — I — I — I  mean  you  are  not 
perfectly  right;  and  as  for  her  age,  why  I  should  like  her  to  be — 
let  me  see — about  ten  years  younger  than  myself:  a  man  shou'd 
be  at  least  ten  years  older  than  his  wife. 

TRUEMAN.  Ten  years;  fifty-three  and  ten  are  sixty- three. 
Then  you  mean  your  wife  shall  be  fifty-three  years  of  age. 

LOVEYET.  S'death,  sir!  I  tell  you  I  am  but  two  and  forty 
years  old:  She  sha'n't  be  more  than  thirty  odd,  sir,  and  she  shall 
be  ten  years  younger  than  I  am  too. 

TRUEMAN.  Yes,  thirty  odd  years  younger  than  you  are;  ha, 
ha.  The  exiguity  of  those  legs  is  a  most  promising  earnest  of 
your  future  exploits,  and  demonstrate  your  agility,  virility, 
salubrity,  and  amorosity;  ha,  ha,  ha.  I  can't  help  laughing  to 
think  what  a  blessed  union  there  will  be  between  August  and 
December;  a  jolly,  buxom,  wanton,  wishful,  plethoric  female  of 
thirty  odd,  to  an  infirm,  decrepit,  consumptive,  gouty,  rheumatic, 
asthmatic,  phlegmatic  mortal  of  near  seventy;  ha,  ha.  Ex- 


362  Representative  Plays 

quisitely  droll  and  humourous,  upon  my  erudition.  It  puts  me  in 
mind  of  a  hot  bed  in  a  hard  winter,  surrounded  with  ice,  and  made 
verdant  and  flourishing  only  by  artificial  means. 
LOVE  YET.    Pshaw,  you're  a  fool! 

Enter  TOUPEE. 

TOUPEE.  Pardonnez  moy,  monsieur.  I  hope  it  not  be  any 
intrusion;  par  dieu,  I  will  not  frize  dat  Jantemon  a  la  mode  Paris 
no  more,  becase  he  vas  fronte  me. 

TRUEMAN.   What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Toupee? 

TOUPEE.  I  vill  tella  your  honare  of  the  fracas.  I  vas  vait  on 
monsieur  a — choses,  and  make  ma  compliment  avec  beaucoup 
de  grace,  ven  monsieur  vas  read  de  news  papier;  so  I  say,  is  your 
honare  ready  for  be  dress?  De  great  man  say,  "No — ,  d — n  de 
barbare."  [In  a  low  voice.}  I  tell  de  parsone,  sare,  I  have 
promise  'pon  honare  for  dress  one  great  man  vat  is  belong  to  de 
Congress,  'bout  dis  time,  sans  manquer:  De  ansare  vas  (excuse 
moy,  monsieur),  "go  to  h-11,  if  you  be  please;  I  must  read  'bout 
de  Constitution."  Dis  is  de  ole  affair,  monsieur,  en  verite. 

LOVEYET.  Sixty-three,  indeed!  Heaven  forbid!  But  if  I 
was  so  old,  my  constitution  is  good;  age  is  nothing,  the  constitu 
tion  is  all, — ugh,  ugh,  ugh. 

TOUPEE.   Sare,  you  vill  give  me  leaf,  vat  is  dat  Constitution? 

LOVEYET.   Hold  your  prating,  you  booby. 

TOUPEE.   You  booby, — Vat  is  dat  booby,  I  vender ! 

TRUEMAN.  Ha,  ha,  a  good  constitution!  With  great  propriety 
did  the  man  ask  you  what  constitution  you  meant.  Ha,  ha,  ha. 

TOUPEE.  Par  Dieu,  monsieur  de  Schoolmastare  sail  larn  a  me 
vat  is  de  booby!  oui,  an  de  Constitution, — foy  d'Homme 
d'Honneur. 

TRUEMAN.   What  a  figure  for  a  sound  constitution!    ha,  ha. 

LOVEYET.  Ugh,  hang  you  for  an  old  simpleton!  Talk  of  my 
age  and  constitution. — Ugh,  ugh,  ugh.  [Exit. 

TRUEMAN.   Fractious  old  blockhead! 

TOUPEE.  Blockhead!  Pourquoi  you  call  a  mine  head  von 
block,  sare? 

TRUEMAN.  I  mean  that  old  curmudgeon  who  goes  hobbling 
along  there,  like  a  man  of  forty. 

TOUPEE.  Pardonnez  moy,  monsieur;  S'il  vous  plait,  ve  make 
de  eclaircissement,  if  you  tell  me  vat  is  de  interpretation — you 
booby. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  363 

TRUEMAN.  What!  have  you  the  effrontery  to  call  me  a  booby? 
S'death,  you  scoundrel,  what  do  you  mean? 

TOUPEE.   Vous  ne  m'entendez  pas.  [Hastily. 

TRUEMAN.  Do  you  threaten  me,  you  insignificant  thing? 
Do  you  call  me  names? 

TOUPEE.    Diable !  me  no  stand  under  your  names. 

TRUEMAN.  Zounds  and  fury!  I  am  raving.  Must  I  bear  to  be 
abus'd  in  this  manner,  by  a  vile  Tonsor? 

TOUPEE.  Yes,  you  Schoolmastare ;  you  tell  me  vat  be  you 
booby. 

TRUEMAN.    Pertinacious,  audacious  reptile!     [Canes  TOUPEE. 

TOUPEE.   Ah,  mon  dieu !  mon  dieu !  [Runs  off. 

TRUEMAN.  To  insult  a  professor  of  Orthography,  Analogy, 
Syntax,  and  Prosody! 

SCENE  II.   A  Street. 

Enter  YOUNG  LOVEYET. 

In  compliance  with  the  commands  of  a  father,  here  I  am, 
once  more  in  the  place  of  my  nativity.  Duty  to  him,  and  curios 
ity  to  know,  why  he  has  enjoined  my  sudden  departure  so  peremp 
torily,  as  well  as  a  desire  to  see  New- York  (perhaps  never  to  leave 
it  more)  have  all  conspir'd  to  bring  me  here  sooner  than  I  am  ex 
pected, — let  me  see — yes,  I  must  try  to  find  out  Frankton  first. 
[HUMPHRY  crosses  the  stage.}  Here,  friend,  honest  man,  prithee 
stop. 

HUMPHRY.  What's  your  will? 

LOVEYET.  Can  you  inform  me,  friend,  where  one  Mr.  Frank- 
ton  lives? 

HUMPHRY.  No,  I  don't  know  where  anybody  lives  in  this  big 
city,  not  I ;  for  my  part,  I  believe  how  they  all  lives  in  the  street, 
there's  such  a  monstrous  sight  of  people  a  scrouging  backards  and 
forards,  as  the  old  saying  is.  If  I  was  home  now 

LOVEYET.   Where  is  your  home,  if  I  may  make  so  free? 

HUMPHRY.  Oh,  you  may  make  free  and  welcome,  for  the  more 
freer  the  more  welcomer,  as  the  old  saying  is ;  I  never  thinks  my 
self  too  good  to  discourse  my  superiors:  There's  some  of  our 
townsfolks  now,  why  some  of  'um  isn't  so  good  as  I,  to  be  sure. 
There's  Tom  Forge,  the  blacksmith,  and  little  Daniel  Snip,  the 
tailor,  and  Roger  Peg,  the  cobbler,  and  Tim  Frize,  the  barber,  and 
Landlord  Tipple,  that  keeps  the  ale-house  at  the  sign  of  the 


364  Representative  Plays 

Turk's  Head,  and  Jeremy  Stave,  the  clerk  of  the  meeting-house, 
why,  there  an't  one  of  'um  that's  a  single  copper  before  a  beggar, 
as  the  old  saying  is;  but  what  o'  that?  We  isn't  all  born  alike,  as 
father  says;  for  my  part,  I  likes  to  be  friendly,  so  give  us  your 
hand.  You  mus'n't  think  how  I  casts  any  reflections  on  you; 
no,  no,  I  scorn  the  action.  [They  shake  hands.]  That's  hearty 
now — Friendship  is  a  fine  thing,  and,  a  friend  indeed  is  a  friend 
in  need,  as  the  saying  is. 

LOVEYET.   What  an  insufferable  fool  it  is!  [Half  aside. 

HUMPHRY.  Yes,  it  is  insufferable  cool,  that's  sartin;  but  it's 
time  to  expect  it. 

LOVEYET.   Worse  and  worse! 

HUMPHRY.  Yes,  I  warrant  you  it  will  be  worser  and  worser 
before  long;  so  I  must  e'en  go  home  soon,  and  look  after  the  corn 
and  the  wheat,  or  else  old  father  will  bring  his  pigs  to  a  fine 
market,  as  the  old  proverb  goes. 

LOVEYET.  You're  quite  right;  you  mean  your  father  wou'd 
bring  his  corn  to  a  fine  market:  You  mean  it  as  a  figurative  ex 
pression,  I  presume. 

HUMPHRY.  Not  I,  I  isn't  for  none  of  your  figure  expressions, 
d'  ye  see,  becase  why,  I  never  larnt  to  cipher; — every  grain  of 
corn  a  pig!  Ha,  ha,  ha.  That's  pleasant,  ecod;  why  the  Jews 
wou'dn't  dare  for  to  shew  their  noses  out  o'doors,  everything 
wou'd  smell  so  woundily  of  pork!  Ha,  ha,  ha. 

LOVEYET.  A  comical  countryman  of  mine  this.  [Aside.] 
What  is  your  name,  my  honest  lad? 

HUMPHRY.  Why,  if  you'll  tell  me  your  name,  I'll  tell  you  mine, 
d'  ye  see;  for,  one  good  turn  desarves  another,  as  the  old  saying  is, 
and,  evil  be  to  them  that  evil  thinks,  every  tub  must  stand  upon 
its  own  bottom,  and,  when  the  steed  is  stolen,  shut  the  stable 
door,  and,  while  the  grass  grows,  the  mare  starves — the  horse  I 
mean;  it  don't  make  no  odds,  a  horse  is  a  mare,  but  a  mare  an't 
a  horse,  as  father  says,  d'  ye  see — and 

LOVEYET.   What  a  monstrous  combination  of  nonsense! 

HUMPHRY.  Don't  tell  me  what  I  am,  but  tell  me  what  I  have 
been — 

LOVEYET.  Prithee,  Mr.  Sancho,  let's  have  no  more  of  those 
insipid  proverbs.  You  was  going  to  tell  me  your  name. 

HUMPHRY.   My  name  is  Cubb, — Humphry  Cubb,  at  your  sar- 
vice,  as  the  saying  is. 
.  LOVEYET.   Hah !  my  worthy  friend  Frankton 


The  Politician  Out-witted  365 

Enter  FRANKTON. 

FRANKTON.  My  best,  my  long  expected  Charles!  your  ar 
rival  has  made  me  the  happiest  man  alive.  [They  embrace. 

LOVEYET.  I  am  heartily  glad  to  see  you,  George,  and  to  meet 
you  so  opportunely;  'tis  not  fifteen  minutes  since  I  landed  on  my 
native  soil,  and  you  are  the  very  person,  above  every  other  in  the 
city,  whom  I  wish'd  first  to  see. 

FRANKTON.   Then  you  have  not  forgot  your  friend. 

LOVEYET.  Far  from  it,  Frankton;  be  assured  that  the  joy 
I  now  feel  at  meeting  with  you,  is  by  no  means  the  least  I  expect 
to  experience. 

FRANKTON.  Our  satisfaction  is  then  mutual — your  friends  are 
all  happy  and  well,  and  I  know  your  arrival  will  not  a  little  con 
tribute  to  their  felicity,  as  well  as  mine — but  who  have  you  here, 
Loveyet?  Landed  not  fifteen  minutes  ago,  and  in  close  confab 
with  one  of  our  Boors  already? 

HUMPHRY.  A  boar!  why  you're  worser  than  he  there — he  only 
took  father's  corn  for  pigs,  but  do  you  take  me  for  a  &oar,eigh? 
Do  I  look  like  a  hog,  as  the  saying  is? 

FRANKTON.  Begone,  you  illiterate  lubber! — My  dear  Charles, 
I  have  a  thousand  things  to  say  to  you,  and  this  is  an  unfit  place 
for  conversation. 

LOVEYET.   We  will  adjourn  to  the  Coffee-House. 

FRANKTON.   No,  you  shall  go  with  me  to  my  lodgings. 

HUMPHRY.  Why,  what  a  cruel-minded  young  dog  he  is!  See 
how  he  swaggers  and  struts — he  looks  very  like  the  Pharisee's 
head,  on  old  Coming  Sir,  honest  Dick  Tipple's  sign,  I  think — No, 
now  I  look  at  him  good,  he's  the  very  moral  of  our  Tory. 

LOVEYET.    I  wait  your  pleasure,  Frankton. 

FRANKTON.  Then  aliens!      [Exeunt  FRANKTON  and  LOVEYET. 

HUMPHRY.  [Burlesquing  them.]  Forward,  march — as  our 
Captain  says — [Struts  after  them.] — Literary  lubber,  eigh!  But 
I'll  be  up  with  the  foutre. 

FRANKTON  and  LOVEYET  return. 

FRANKTON.   Do  you  call  me  a  foutre,  you  rascal? 

HUMPHRY.  Call  you  a  future!  ha,  ha,  ha.  I  was  a  talking 
about  something  that  I  was  a  going  for  to  do  some  other  time, 
sir. — Doesn't  future  magnify  some  other  time,  eigh? 

FRANKTON.   The  future  signifies  the  time  to  come,  to  be  sure. 


366  Representative  Plays 

HUMPHRY.  Well,  then,  isn't  I  right?  What  argufies  your 
signifies,  or  your  magnifies?  There  an't  the  toss  up  of  a  copper 
between  'um — I  wou'dn't  give  a  leather  button  for  the  choice, 
as  the  old  proverb  goes. 

FRANKTON.    Harkee,  Mr.  Talkative,  if  you  ever 

HUMPHRY.  No,  sir,  never, — that  I  won't — no,  no,  you  may  be 
sure  of  that. 

FRANKTON.   Sure  of  what? 

HUMPHRY.  Nothing,  sir;  we  can  be  sartin  of  nothing  in  this 
world,  as  Mr.  Thumpum  says. 

LOVEYET.   Ha,  ha,  ha. 

FRANKTON.   Oh,  what  a  precious  numskull  it  is! 

LOVEYET.  [To  FRANKTON.]  I  have  a  letter  here,  which  an 
nounces  to  my  father,  my  intention  to  leave  the  West-Indies  the 
beginning  of  March,  but  I  miss'd  of  the  expected  conveyance — 
I  have  half  a  mind  to  send  it  yet.  I  would  not  have  him  apprized 
of  my  arrival;  for  I  wish  to  try  if  he  would  know  me; — and  yet 
I  long  to  embrace  my  aged  and  venerable  parent. — Will  you  do 
me  the  favour  to  take  this  letter  to  my  father,  Mr.  Cubb?  He 
lives  at  number  two  hundred  and  fifty,  in  Queen-Street,  in  a 
three-story  red  brick  house. — I'll  reward  you  for  it. 

HUMPHRY.  As  for  your  rewards,  I'm  above  it,  d'  ye  see:  If  I 
do  it,  I'll  do  it  without  fear  or  reward,  as  the  saying  is;  but  if  you 
think  fit,  you  may  treat  a  body  to  the  valuation  of  a  mug  or  so. 
Don't  you  love  ale?  for  they  says  how  the  Yorkers  is  cursed  fel 
lows  for  strong  beer. 

LOVEYET.   What  a  digression ! 

HUMPHRY.  I  scorn  your  words — 'tis  no  transgression  at  all 
to  drink  ale — W7hy,  Parson  Thumpum  himself  drinks  ale. 

LOVEYET.  Well,  will  you  carry  the  letter?  You  shall  have  as 
much  strong  beer  when  you  come  back  as  you  can  stagger  under. 

HUMPHRY.  Why,  if  I  was  for  to  have  my  beer  a-board  before 
I  go,  I  shou'dn't  get  top-heavy,  as  the  saying  is;  for  I  can  carry 
as  much  weight  in  my  head  as  e'er  a  he  that  wears  a  head,  with 
out  staggering. 

FRANKTON.  I  dare  say  you  can;  you  have  always  plenty  of 
that. 

HUMPHRY.  Yes,  you're  right — I  know  what  you  mean;  I've 
got  it  here  a  little,  as  old  Mr.  Scourge  says.  [Exeunt  FRANKTON 
and  LOVEYET.]  But  as  for  what  you  said  just  now — no,  no,  sir; 
I'll  never  f outre  you,  I  warrant  you — I  always  curses  and  swears 


The  Politician  Out-witted  367 

in  plain  English,  d'  ye  see — I — what's  he  gone?  I  hope  he  won't 
come  back  again  for  the  sixth  time;  three  times  has  he  been  in 
and  out  within  the  circumference  of  a  minute.  But  I  won't  stay 
here  no  longer — I'll  go  and  try  if  I  can't  find  out  where  Doll  lives, 
my  old  sweetheart;  I  an't  so  poor,  but  what  I  can  buy  her  a  rib 
bon  or  so;  and,  if  all  comes  to  all,  I  can  get  a  new  pair  o'  breeches 
too;  for,  to  be  sure,  this  one  doesn't  look  quite  so  decent,  and  if 
that  doesn't  fetch  her,  the  devil  shall,  as  the  old  saying  is.  I'm 
cursedly  afraid,  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  find  out  her  quarters.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.  MR.  FRIENDLY'S  House. 
Enter  HARRIET  and  MARIA. 

HARRIET.  Pray,  Maria,  how  were  you  entertained  at  the 
Assembly  last  night? 

MARIA.  Very  indifferently,  I  assure  you,  my  dear:  You  know, 
Harriet,  I  do  most  cordially  hate  dancing  at  any  time;  but 
what  must  one  do  with  one's  self  these  irksome,  heavy,  dreary 
Winters?  If  it  were  not  for  cards,  visits  to  and  from,  and 

HARRIET.   Assemblies. 

MARIA.  Yes,  as  my  last  resource,  Assemblies,  I  should  abso 
lutely  be  in  a  state  of  despair  before  Spring. — Then  one  may  take 
an  excursion  on  York  or  Long- Island — an  agreeable  sail  on  the 
East-River — a  walk  in  the  Broadway,  Pharisee-like,  to  be  seen  of 
men,  and — to  see  them — and  then  how  refreshing  to  take  a  negli 
gent  stroll  on  the  Battery,  the  Fort,  the  Mall,  and  from  thence  to 
Miss  Such-a-one,  then  to  Mrs.  Such-a-one,  then  to  Lady  What's- 
her-name,  and  then  home; — but  now  I  am  half  of  my  time  as 
motionless  as  Pitt's  statue;  as  petrified  and  inanimate  as  an 
Egyptian  mummy,  or  rather  frozen  snake,  who  crawls  out  of  his 
hole  now  and  then  in  this  season  to  bask  in  the  rays  of  the  sun. 

HARRIET.  And  whenever  the  sunshine  of  Mr.  Frankton's 
eyes  breaks  upon  you,  you  revive. 

MARIA.  Pshaw — I  wish  you  had  Mr.  Frankton  yourself,  since 
you  are  so  full  of  his  sweet  image. 

HARRIET.  I'm  sure  you  did  not  wish  so  last  night:  Your  eyes 
seem'd  to  say, — I  wish  I  could  secure  the  good-for-nothing,  agree 
able  rake. 

MARIA.  Oh,  you  heard  my  eyes  say  so,  did  you?  I  ask  pardon 
of  your  penetration. 

HARRIET.  But  do  you  really  think  the  Winter  is  so  destitute  of 
comforts? 


368  Representative  Plays 

MARIA.  Ha,  ha,  comforts!  by  comforts  I  suppose  you  mean 
the  sweets  of  domestic  life — the  large  portion  of  comfort  arising 
from  a  large  winter  fire,  and  the  very  pleasing  tittle-tattle  of  an 
antiquated  maiden  aunt,  or  the  equally  pleasing  (tho'  less  loqua 
cious)  society  of  a  husband,  who,  with  a  complaisance  peculiar  to 
husbands,  responds — sometimes  by  a  doubtful  shrug,  sometimes 
a  stupid  yawn,  a  lazy  stretch,  an  unthinking  stare,  a  clownish 
nod,  a  surly  no,  or  interrogates  you  with  a — humph?  till  bed 
time,  when,  heaven  defend  us!  you  are  doom'd  to  be  snor'd  out 
of  your  wits  till  day-break,  when 

HARRIET.  Hold,  Maria — what  a  catalogue  of  uncomfortable 
comforts  have  you  run  over. — Pleasure  and  Comfort  are  words 
which  imply  the  same  thing  with  me;  but  in  this  enlighten'd  age, 
when  words  are  so  curiously  refin'd  and  defin'd,  modern  critics 
and  fashionable  word-mongers  have,  in  the  abundance  of  their 
wisdom,  made  a  very  nice  distinction  between  them — for  my  part, 
I  always  endeavour  to  reconcile  modish  pleasure  with  real  com 
fort,  and  custom  with  reason,  as  much  as  is  in  any  way  consistent 
with  the  obligation  one  is  under  to  conform  a  little  to  the  perverse 
notions  of  mankind. 

MARIA.  There  now! — you  know  I  can't  abide  to  hear  you 
moralize — prithee,  my  dear  Harriet,  leave  that  to  grey  beards 
and  long-ear'd  caps — everything  is  beautiful  in  its  season,  you 
know. 

HARRIET.  Common  sense  and  propriety  are  ever  in  season, 
Maria,  and  I  was  going  to  mention  a  sentimental  pleasure,  a 
rational  enjoyment,  which  is  peculiar  to  the  present  season,  tho' 
beautiful  in  every  one,  if  you  had  not  got  frightened  at  the  idea 
of  being  comforted. 

MARIA.  Well,  my  dear  comfortable,  rational,  sentimental 
Harriet!  Let  me  hear  what  this  rational  enjoyment  of  yours  is? 

HARRIET.    Hearing  a  good  play,  my  dear. 

MARIA.    Hearing  a  good  play!  why  not  seeing  it,  pray? 

HARRIET.  Because  I  believe  plays  are  frequently  seen,  and 
not  heard;  at  least,  not  as  they  ought  to  be. 

MARIA.   I  protest  you  are  quite  a  critic,  Harriet. 

HARRIET.  If  you  desire  amusement,  what  so  likely  to  beguile 
the  heavy  hours  as  Comedy?  If  your  spirits  are  depress'd,  what 
so  replete  with  that  which  can  revive  them  as  the  laughter-loving 
Thalia?  If  the  foibles  and  vices  of  human  nature  ought  to  suffer 
correction,  in  what  way  can  they  be  satiriz'd  so  happily  and  sue- 


The  Politician  Out-witted  369 

cessfully  as  on  the  stage ; — or  if  elegance  of  language,  and  refine 
ment  of  sentiment 

MARIA.    Humph — there's  sentiment  again. 

HARRIET.  You  dislike  every  good  thing  I  have  mentioned  this 
morning,  Maria, — except  one. 

MARIA.   What's  that,  my  dear? 

HARRIET.   Mr.  Frankton. 

MARIA.  Ha,  ha.  Why,  to  be  sure,  the  good  things  of  this  life 
are  not  to  be  despis'd,  and  men  are  not  the  worst  creatures  be 
longing  to  this  life,  nor  Mr.  Frankton  the  worst  of  men,  but — 
apropos,  about  plays — did  you  observe  how  much  I  was  affected 
the  other  night  at  the  tragedy  of  Zara? 

HARRIET.  I  really  did  not — I  wish  I  had  seen  such  a  pleasing 
proof  of  your  sensibility. 

MARIA.  Oh,  you  cruel  creature! — wish  to  see  your  friend  in 
tears? 

HARRIET.  Tis  rather  unusual  to  see  a  lady  of  your  taste  and 
spirit,  either  weep  at  a  pathetic  incident  in  tragedy,  or  laugh  at  a 
comic  scene;  and  as  for  the  gentlemen,  your  lads  of  spirit,  such 
as  are  falsely  called  ladies'  men,  they  are  not  so  masculine  as  to 
understand,  and,  therefore,  not  so  effeminate  as  to  weep;  tho' 
one  would  conclude,  from  their  effeminacy  in  appearance  and  be 
haviour,  that  they  would  cry  if  you  were  to  look  at  them. 

MARIA.  To  be  sure,  a  little  matter  will  draw  tears  from  the 
feminine  part  of  mankind. 

HARRIET.  For  your  part,  you  seem'd  to  be  neither  laughing 
nor  crying,  but  rather  displeas'd  and  uneasy. 

MARIA.  Oh,  you  mistake  the  matter  entirely,  my  dear;  your 
skill  in  physiognomy  is  but  indifferent,  I  find — why,  after  the 
tragedy  was  over,  I  laugh 'd  most  inordinately  for  a  considerable 
time. 

HARRIET.   On  what  account,  pray? 

MARIA.  Why,  you  must  know,  my  dear,  Mr.  Frankton  sat 
in  the  box  opposite  to  the  one  I  was  in. 

HARRIET.  Yes,  I  know  your  dear  Mr.  Frankton  was  in  the 
opposite  box. 

MARIA.  My  dear  Mr.  Frankton!  Did  I  say  so?  Why  I 
could  not  say  more  of  him,  were  he  my  husband. 

HARRIET.  If  you  conform  to  custom,  you  would  not  say  so 
much  of  a  husband. 


370  Representative  Plays 

MARIA.  But  I  did  not  say  any  such  thing.  Says  I,  you  must 
know,  my  dear  Harriet 

HARRIET.    No,  no,  there  was  no  Harriet  mentioned. 

MARIA.  But  I  say  there  was — so,  as  I  was  going  to  tell  you, 
you  must  know,  my  dear  Harriet,  that  Mr.  Frankton  sat 
opposite  to  me  at  the  theatre ;  and  as  he  seem'd  to  be  very  much 
chagrin'd  at  the  attention  which  was  paid  me  by  a  couple  of 
beaux,  I  took  some  pains  to  mortify  him  a  little;  for,  tho* 
he  strove  to  hide  his  uneasiness  by  chattering,  and  whispering, 
and  tittering,  and  shewing  his  white  teeth,  his  embarrassment 
was  very  visible  under  his  affected  unconcern. 

HARRIET.  How  exactly  she  has  described  her  own  situation  and 
feelings!  [Aside.] — I  find  that  you  acquire  your  skill  in  physiog 
nomy  from  sympathy;  or  from  making  suitable  comparisons,  and 
drawing  natural  inferences  from  them;  but  now  for  the  remain 
der  of  your  pleasant  anecdote,  Maria. 

MARIA.  So,  I  was  extremely  civil  to  my  two  worshipping  vo 
taries,  grinn'd  when  they  did,  and  talk'd  as  much  nonsense  as 
either  of  them.  During  this  scene  of  mock-gallantry,  one  of  my 
love-sick  swains  elevated  his  eyes  in  a  most  languishing  manner; 
and,  clasping  his  sweet,  unlucky  hands  together  rather  eagerly, 
my  little  dog  Muff  happen'd  to  be  in  the  way,  by  which  means 
my  pet  was  squeez'd  rather  more  than  it  lik'd,  and  my  Adonis's 
finger  bit  by  it  so  feelingly,  that  it  would  have  delighted  you  to 
see  how  he  twisted  his  soft  features  about,  with  the  excruciating 
anguish.  Ha,  ha,  ha. 

HARRIET.  Ha,  ha,  ha.  Exceeding  ludicrous  indeed!— But 
pray,  my  dear  careless,  sprightly  Maria,  was  you  not  a  little 
nettled  to  see  Mr.  Frankton  and  his  nymphs  so  great?  And  are 
you  not  deeply  in  love  with  each  other,  notwithstanding  your 
coquetry  at  the  theatre,  and  his  levity  at  the  Assembly? — Yes, 
yes, — your  aversion  to  the  dancing  last  night  was  only  pretence. 
I  hope  when  your  hearts  are  cemented  by  wedlock,  you  will  both 
do  better. 

MARIA.  It  will  be  well  if  I  do  no  worse;  but,  to  hear  you  talk, 
one  would  swear  you  were  not  in  love  yourself. 

HARRIET.  Love  is  an  amiable  weakness,  of  which  our  sex  are 
peculiarly  susceptible. 

MARIA.  Ha,  ha,  ha;  of  which  our  sex  are  peculiarly  susceptible 
— what  an  evasion! — and  so  my  dear  lovelorn,  pensive,  senti 
mental,  romantic  Harriet  has  never  experienced  that  same 


The  Politician  Out-witted  371 

amiable  weakness  which,  it  seems,  the  weaker  sex  is  so  susceptible 
of.    But  I  won't  tease  you  about  Mr.  Loveyet  any  more;  adieu. 

[Going. 

HARRIET.   Ha,  ha;  why  in  such  sudden  haste,  my  dear? 
MARIA.    I  have  already  made  my  visit  longer  than  I  intended, 
and  I  have  plagu'd  you  enough  now;  adieu. 

HARRIET.   Ha,  ha,  ha;  that  is  laughable  enough. 

[Exeunt,  separately. 
End  of  the  First  Act. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.   FRANKTON'S  Lodgings. 
FRANKTON  and  YOUNG  LOVEYET  sitting. 

LOVEYET.   When  did  you  say  you  saw  her? 

FRANKTON.  Last  night,  in  company  with  several  other  belles 
of  no  small  note,  who  did  not  look  a  tittle  the  handsomer  for 
appearing  at  the  same  time  with  her,  I  assure  you. 

LOVEYET.    Then  she's  as  charming  as  ever. 

FRANKTON.  Charming  as  ever!  By  all  that's  beautiful,  a 
Seraphim  is  nothing  to  her!  And  as  for  Cherubims,  when  they 
compete  with  her, 

Conscious  of  her  superior  charms  they  stand, 
And  rival 'd  quite  by  such  a  beauteous  piece 
Of  mortal  composition;   they,  reluctant, 
Hide  their  diminished  heads. 

LOVEYET.  You  extol  her  in  very  rapturous  strains,  George — 
I  hope  you  have  not  been  smitten  by  her  vast  perfections,  like 
the  Cherubims. 

FRANKTON.  I  am  really  enraptur'd  with  the  bewitching  little 
Goddess! 

LOVEYET.  Do  you  positively  think  her  so  much  superior  to  the 
generality  of  women? 

FRANKTON.    Most  indubitably  I  do — don't  you,  pray? 

LOVEYET.  I  thought  her  handsome  once — but — but — but  you 
certainly  are  not  in  love  with  her. 

FRANKTON.  Not  I,  faith.  Ha,  ha,  ha.  My  enamorata  and 
yours  are  two  distinct  persons,  I  assure  you — and  two  such  beau- 


372  Representative  Plays 

ties! — By  all  that's  desirable,  if  there  was  only  one  more  in  the 
city  who  could  vie  with  the  lovely  girls,  and  boast  of  the  same 
elegantly  proportioned  forms;  the  same  beauty,  delicacy  and 
symmetry  of  features;  the  same  celestial  complexion,  in  which 
the  lily  and  carnation  are  equally  excell'd;  the  same 

LOVEYET.  Oh,  monstrous!  Why,  they  exceed  all  the  Goddesses 
I  ever  heard  of,  by  your  account. 

FRANKTON.  Well,  if  you  had  let  me  proceed,  I  should  have  told 
you  that  if  one  more  like  them  could  be  found  in  town,  they  would 
make  a  more  beautiful  triple  than  the  three  renowned  goddesses 
who  were  candidates  for  beauty  and  a  golden  apple  long  ago;  but 
no  matter  now. — The  account  you  have  given  of  the  lovely 
Harriet,  has  rekindled  the  flame  she  so  early  inspir'd  me  with, 
and  I  already  feel  myself  all  the  lover;  how  then  shall  I  feel,  when 
I  once  more  behold  the  dear  maid,  like  the  mother  of  mankind — 
"with  grace  in  all  her  steps,  heaven  in  her  eye;  in  every  gesture, 
dignity  and  love!" 

FRANKTON.  Aye — and  what  do  you  think  of  your  father's 
sending  for  you  to  marry  you  to  this  same  beautiful  piece  of 
mortality? 

LOVEYET.  Is  it  possible?  Then  I  am  happy  indeed!  But  this 
surpasses  my  most  sanguine  hopes! 

FRANKTON.  Did  you  suppose  he  would  object  to  the  alliance 
then? 

LOVEYET.  I  did  not  know, — my  hope  was  only  founded  on 
the  probability  of  his  approving  it. 

FRANKTON.  Well,  I  can  now  inform  you  that  your  hope  has  a 
better  basis  to  rest  on,  and  that  there  is  as  fair  a  prospect  of  its 
being  shortly  swallowed  up  in  fruition  as  ever  Cupid  and  Hymen 
presented  to  a  happy  mortal's  view. — For  your  farther  comfort, 
I  have  the  pleasure  to  acquaint  you,  that  Mr.  Trueman  is 
equally  fond  of  the  match. 

LOVEYET.  Better  and  better — my  dear  George!  You  are  the 
best  of  friends, — my  happy  genius!  My  very  guardian  angel! 

FRANKTON.   Well  said,  Heroics — come,  spout  away. 

LOVEYET.  Yes,  I  am  happy,  very  happy,  indeed:  Moralists 
disparage  this  world  too  much, — there  is  such  a  thing  as  happi 
ness  under  the  sun, — I  feel  it  now  most  irrefragably, — here  it 
vibrates  in  a  most  extatic  manner. 

FRANKTON.  Why,  you  are  positively  the  arrantest  love-sick 
swain  that  ever  had  recourse  to  a  philter. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  373 

LOVEYET.  Profane  heretic  in  love !  Did  not  you  extol  the  two 
Seraphims  just  now  in  the  same  generous  language?  But  you 
have  never  experienced  the  blissful  transition  from  doubt  and 
solicitude  to  certainty  and  peace,  as  I  do  now. 

FRANKTON.   How  do  you  know  that? 

LOVEYET.  I  only  conjecture  so — Did  you  ever  feel  the  same 
transports  I  do? 

FRANKTON.  How,  in  the  name  of  sense,  should  I  know  how  you 
feel? 

LOVEYET.  Feel! — I  feel  that  kind  heaven,  my  friend,  my 
father,  and  my  dearest  girl,  all  conspire  to  bless  me! 

FRANKTON.   There  he  rides  his  hobby-horse  again. 

LOVEYET.  Aye,  and  a  generous  horse  he  is — he  carries  me  very 
pleasantly,  I  assure  you. 

FRANKTON.  Yes,  and,  I  dare  say,  could  convey  you  more 
agreeably  and  speedily  to  Paradise  than  the  Ass  did  Mahomet. 

LOVEYET.    Ha,  ha.    I  think  you  have  improved  my  idea. 

FRANKTON.  To  improve  your  reason,  and  check  your  strange 
delirium,  I  have. 

LOVEYET.  I  will  talk  more  dispassionately; — but  my  heart 
will  palpitate  at  the  thought  of  meeting  the  lovely  source  of  its 
joy,  and  the  ultimatum  of  all  its  wishes! 

FRANKTON.    I  suppose  you  know  she  lives  with  Mr.  Friendly. 

LOVEYET.   With  Mr.  Friendly! 

FRANKTON.  Yes,  she  is  nearly  related  to  his  family,  and  as  the 
style  in  which  they  live,  corresponds  with  her  former  prosperity 
better  than  the  present  ineligible  situation  of  her  father  does,  he 
has  granted  them  her  valuable  company,  after  their  repeated  so 
licitations  had  prov'd  the  sincerity  of  their  regard. 

LOVEYET.  But  how  do  you  account  for  Mr.  Trueman's  pov 
erty,  since  fortune  has  lately  put  it  so  much  in  Harriet's  power 
to  relieve  him  from  it?  I  dare  not  think  it  arises  from  her  want 
of  filial  regard;  I  do  not  know  anything  so  likely  to  abate  the 
ardour  of  my  attachment  as  a  knowledge  of  that;  but  it  is  an 
ungenerous  suggestion,  unworthy  the  benignity  and  tenderness 
of  the  gentle  Harriet. 

FRANKTON.  It  is  so. — Two  things,  on  the  part  of  the  old  gen 
tleman,  are  the  cause:  his  pride  will  not  suffer  him  to  be  the  sub 
ject  of  a  daughter's  bounty;  and  his  regard  for  that  daughter's 
welfare,  makes  him  fearful  of  being  instrumental  in  impairing  her 
fortune. 


374  Representative  Plays 

LOVEYET.  I  thought  the  angelic  girl  could  not  be  ungrateful 
to  the  parent  of  her  being;  but  don't  let  us  tarry — I  am  already 
on  the  wing. 

FRANKTON.  You  are  too  sanguine;  you  must  not  expect  to 
succeed  without  a  little  opposition. 

LOVEYET.    How!  what  say  you?    pray  be  explicit. 

FRANKTON.  I  will  remove  your  suspense. — There  is  a  Mr. 
Worthnought,  a  thing  by  some  people  call'd  a  man,  a  beau, 
a  fine  gentleman,  a  smart  fellow;  and  by  others  a  coxcomb, 
a  puppy,  a  baboon  and  an  ass. 

LOVEYET.   And  what  of  him? 

FRANKTON.    Nothing;  only  he  visits  Miss  Harriet  frequently. 

LOVEYET.    Hah! — and  does  she  countenance  his  addresses? 

FRANKTON.  I'll  explain. — He  imagines  she  is  fond  of  him, 
because  she  does  not  actually  discard  him;  upon  which  presump 
tion  he  titters,  capers,  vows,  bows,  talks  scraps  of  French,  and 
sings  an  amorous  lay — with  such  an  irresistibly  languishing  air, 
that  she  cannot  do  less  than  compliment  him — on  the  fineness  of 
his  voice,  for  instance;  the  smartness  of  his  repartees,  the  brilli 
ancy  of  his  wit,  the  gaiety  and  vivacity  of  his  temper,  his  genteel 
carriage,  his  handsome  person,  his  winning  address,  his 

LOVEYET.    Hah !  you  surely  cannot  be  in  earnest,  Frankton. 

FRANKTON.  To  be  serious  then, — the  sum  total  of  the  affair, 
I  take  to  be  this. — In  order  to  kill  a  heavy  hour,  she  sometimes 
suffers  the  fool  to  be  in  her  company,  because  the  extravagance 
of  his  behaviour,  and  the  emptiness  of  his  upper  region  furnish 
her  with  a  good  subject  for  ridicule;  but  your  presence  will  soon 
make  him  dwindle  into  his  primitive  insignificance. 

LOVEYET.  If  your  prediction  proves  false,  Harriet  will  be 
false  indeed ; — but  I  must  see  her  straightway. 

FRANKTON.  I  think  you  go  pretty  well  fraught  with  the  fruits 
of  our  united  deliberations. 

LOVEYET.    Deliberations! — away  with  the  musty  term — 
No  caution  need  my  willing  footsteps  guide; — 
When  Love  impels — what  evil  can  betide? 
Patriots  may  fear,  their  rulers  lack  more  zeal, 
And  nobly  tremble  for  the  public  weal; 
To  front  the  battle,  and  to  fear  no  harm, 
The  shield  must  glitter  on  the  warrior's  arm: 
Let  such  dull  prudence  their  designs  attend, 
But  Love,  unaided,  shall  obtain  its  end!  [Exeunt. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  375 

SCENE  II.  OLD  LOVEYET'S  House. 

Enter  OLD  LOVEYET  and  TRUEMAN. 

LOVEYET.  I  tell  you  it  is  the  most  infernal  scheme  that  ever 
was  devis'd. 

TRUEMAN.  And  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  your  argument  is  hetero 
dox,  sophistical,  and  most  preposterously  illogical. 

LOVEYET.  I  insist  upon  it,  sir,  you  know  nothing  at  all  about 
the  matter;  and,  give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  sir — 

TRUEMAN.  What — give  you  leave  to  tell  me  I  know  nothing  at 
all  about  the  matter!  I  shall  do  no  such  thing,  sir — I'm  not  to 
be  govern'd  by  your  ipse  dixit. 

LOVEYET.  I  desire  none  of  your  musty  Latin,  sir,  for  I  don't 
understand  it,  not  I. 

TRUEMAN.  Oh,  the  ignorance  of  the  age !  To  oppose  a  plan 
of  government  like  the  new  Constitution.  Like  it,  did  I  say? 
— There  never  was  one  like  it: — neither  Minos,  Solon,  Lycurgus 
nor  Romulus,  ever  fabricated  so  wise  a  system; — why  it  is  a 
political  phenomenon,  a  prodigy  of  legislative  wisdom,  the 
fame  of  which  will  soon  extend  almost  ultramundane,  and  astonish 
the  nations  of  the  world  with  its  transcendent  excellence. — To 
what  a  sublime  height  will  the  superb  edifice  attain ! 

LOVEYET.  Your  aspiring  edifice  shall  never  be  erected  in  this 
State,  sir. 

TRUEMAN.  Mr.  Loveyet,  you  will  not  listen  to  reason:  only 
attend  calmly  one  moment — [Reads.] — "We  the  people  of  the 
United  States,  in  order  to  form  a  more  perfect  union,  establish 
justice,  insure  domestic  tranquillity,  provide — " 

LOVEYET.   I  tell  you  I  won't  hear  it. 

TRUEMAN.  Mark  all  that.  [Reads  again.]  "Section  the  first. 
— All  legislative  powers  herein  granted  shall  be  vested  in  a 
Congress  of  the  United  States,  which  shall  consist  of  a  Senate 
and  House  of  Representatives."  Very  judicious  and  salutary, 
upon  my  erudition. — "Section  the  second " 

LOVEYET.    I' 11  hear  no  more  of  your  sections. 

TRUEMAN.    "Section  the  second. — The  House  of  Representa- 

LOVEYET.   They  never  shall  represent  me,  I  promise  them. 
TRUEMAN.   Why,  you  won't  hear  me  out. 
LOVEYET.    I  have  heard  enough  to  set  me  against  it. 


376  Representative  Plays 

TRUEMAN.  You  have  not  heard  a  quantum  sufficit  to  render 
you  competent  to  give  a  decisive  opinion ;  besides,  you  hear  with 
passion  and  prejudice. 

LOVEYET.  I  don't  care  for  that;  I  say  it  is  a  devilish  design 
upon  our  liberty  and  property;  by  my  body,  it  is; — it  would  re 
duce  us  to  poverty  and  slavery. 

Enter  HUMPHRY,  listening. 

HUMPHRY.  What's  that  about  liberty,  and  property,  and  sla 
very,  and  popery,  and  the  devil?  I  hope  the  pope  and  the  devil 
an't  come  to  town  for  to  play  the  devil,  and  make  nigers  of  us! 

TRUEMAN.   You  will  have  it  your  own  way. 

LOVEYET.  To  be  sure  I  will — in  short,  sir,  the  old  Constitution 
is  good  enough  for  me. 

HUMPHRY.   I  wonder  what  Constitution  magnifies. 

TRUEMAN.  The  old  Constitution! — ha,  ha,  ha,  ha.  Superla 
tively  ludicrous  and  facetious,  upon  my  erudition;  and  highly 
productive  of  risibility — ha,  ha,  ha.  The  old  Constitution! 
A  very  shadow  of  a  government — a  perfect  caput  mortuum; — 
why,  one  of  my  schoolboys  would  make  a  better:  'tis  grown  as 
superannuated,  embecilitated,  valetudinarianated,  invalidated, 
enervated  and  dislocated  as  an  old  man  of  sixty  odd. 

LOVEYET.  Ah,  that's  me — that's  me — sixty  odd,  eigh — 
[Aside.]  I — I — ugh,  ugh,  I  know  what  you  want: — a  consolida 
tion  and  annihilation  of  the  States. 

TRUEMAN.  A  consolidation  and  annihilation! — You  certainly 
have  bid  defiance  to  the  first  rudiments  of  grammar,  and  sworn 
war  against  the  whole  body  of  lexicographers.  Mercy  on  me! 
If  words  are  to  be  thus  abus'd  and  perverted,  there  is  an  end  of 
the  four  grand  divisions  of  grammar  at  once :  If  consolidation  and 
annihilation  are  to  be  us'd  synonymously,  there  is  a  total  annihi 
lation  of  all  the  moods,  tenses,  genders,  persons,  nouns,  pronouns, 
verbs,  adverbs,  substantives,  conjunctions,  interjections,  preposi 
tions,  participles, [Coughs. 

HUMPHRY.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear, — what  a  wise  man  a  School- 


master  is! 

TRUEMAN.  How  can  the  States  be  consolidated  and  annihi 
lated  too?  If  they  are  consolidated  or  compounded  into  one 
national  mass,  surely  the  individual  States  cannot  be  annihilated, 
for,  if  they  were  annihilated,  where  would  be  the  States  to  com 
pose  a  consolidation? — Did  you  ever  study  Logic,  sir? 


The  Politician  Out-witted  377 

LOVEYET.  No,  but  I've  studied  common  sense  tho',  and  that 
tells  me  I  am  right,  and  consequently  you  are  wrong;  there, 
that's  as  good  logic  as  yours. 

TRUEMAN.  You  mean  Paine's  Common  Sense,  I  suppose — yes, 
yes,  there  you  manifest  something  like  common  sense,  Mr. 
Loveyet. 

LOVEYET.  Tis  no  such  thing,  sir;  it  lately  took  three  speakers, 
and  much  better  ones  than  Paine,  no  less  than  three  whole  days, 
to  prove  that  consolidation  and  annihilation  are  one  and  the 
same  thing. 

TRUEMAN.  An  execrable  Triumvirate — a  scandalum  magnatum 
to  all  public  bodies:  I  suppose  they  and  their  adherents  are  now 
sitting  in  Pandemonium,  excogitating  their  diabolical  machina 
tions  against  us. 

LOVEYET.   A  pack  of  nonsensical  stuff! 

TRUEMAN.  Harkee,  Mr.  Loveyet,  I  will  propound  a  problem 
to  you.  We  will  suppose  there  are  two  parallel  lines  drawn  on 
this  floor,  which,  notwithstanding  they  may  be  very  contiguous 
to  each  other,  and  advance  ad  infinitum,  can  never  approximate 
so  near  as  to  effect  a  junction,  in  which  fundamental  axiom  all 
mathematicians  profess  a  perfect  congruity  and  acquiescence: — 
now,  to  elucidate  the  hypothesis  a  little,  we  will  suppose  here  is 
one  line;  and  we  will  further  suppose  here  is  another  line.  [Draws 
his  cane  over  LOVEYET' s  feet,  which  makes  him  jump.]  Now  we 
will  suppose  that  line  is  you,  and  this  line  is  compos'd,  form'd, 
constituted,  made  up  of  discernment,  political  knowledge,  public 
spirit,  and  true  republicanism, — but,  as  I  predicated  antece 
dently,  that  line  is  you — [Striking  his  cane  on  LOVEYET'S  feet.} 
You  must  not  forget  that. 

LOVEYET.  S'death,  sir,  do  you  mean  to  make  a  mathematical 
instrument  of  me,  to  try  experiments  with? 

TRUEMAN.  Now  take  notice — as  the  East  is  to  the  West,  the 
North  Pole  to  the  South  ditto,  the  Georgium  Sidus  to  this 
terraqueous  globe,  or  the  Aborigines  of  America  to  the  Colum 
bians  of  this  generation,  so  is  that  line  to  this  line,  or  Mr.  Love- 
yet  to  true  wisdom  and  judgment;  sometimes  appearing  to 
verge  towards  a  coalition  with  them,  but  never  to  effect  it.  There, 
sir, — in  this  argument,  you  have  a  major,  a  minor  and  a  conclu 
sion,  consonant  to  the  received  principles  of  logic. 

LOVEYET.  Confound  your  senseless  comparisons;  your  prob 
lems,  your  mathematics,  and  your  Georgium  Sidus. 


378  Representative  Plays 

HUMPHRY.   Aye,  confound  your  gorgon  hydras,  I  say  too. 

LOVEYET.  Here  you  have  been  spending  your  breath  to  prove 
— what? — that  I  am  not  a  rational  human  being,  but  a  mathe 
matical  line. 

TRUEMAN.  I  know  you  are  not  a  mathematical  line;  you  are 
not  the  twentieth  part  so  straight  and  well  made; — I  only  wish 
to  convince  you  that  the  present  government  is  an  ignis  fatuus 
that  is  leading  you  and  thousands  more  to  ruin. 

LOVEYET.    But  I  don't  choose  to  be  convinc'd  by  you. 

TRUEMAN.  No  more  than  you'll  be  convinc'd  you  are  sixty 
years  old,  I  suppose. 

LOVEYET.  Now  see  there  again,  see  there!  isn't  this  enough 
to  try  Job's  patience?  I'll  let  you  know  that  my  bodily  and 
political  Constitutions  are  both  good,  sir,  both  sound  alike. 

TRUEMAN.    I  know  they  are.    Ha,  ha,  ha. 

HUMPHRY.  Pray,  old  gentleman,  what  sort  of  things  may  them 
same  constitutions  be? 

TRUEMAN.   Avaunt,  thou  plebeian,  thou  ignoramus! 

HUMPHRY.  Why,  I  lay  now  I  can  say  that  as  good  as  you,  for 
all  you're  such  a  fine  scholard. — I  won't  be  plain,  thou  ignorant 
mouse. 

TRUEMAN.   "Monstrum  horrendum,  cui  lumen  ademptum!" 

HUMPHRY.  Monstrous  memorandums,  cu — no,  I  can't  say 
that;  that's  too  hard  for  me.  Well,  what  a  glorious  thing  it  is  for 
to  have  good  laming. 

LOVEYET.   Sixty  odd  years  indeed!  provoking  wretch! 

HUMPHRY.   What  a  bloody  passion  he's  in ! 

TRUEMAN.  Pray,  Mr.  Loveyet,  do  not  anathematize  me  so; 
— if  you  do  not  civilize  your  phraseology  a  little,  I  must  have 
recourse  to  a  little  castigation,  for,  necessitous  non  habet  legem,  you 
know,  Mr.  Loveyet. 

LOVEYET.   I  know  nothing  about  such  nonsense,  not  I. 

TRUEMAN.  You  are  the  most  unenlightened,  contumacious, 
litigious,  petulant,  opprobrious,  proditorious,  misanthropic  mor 
tal  I  ever  confabulated  a  colloquy  with ;  by  the  dignity  of  my 
profession  you  are. 

HUMPHRY.  What  monstrous  queer  words  he  discourses  the  old 
fellow  with! 

LOVEYET.  Mighty  pleasant  and  witty,  by  my  body;  sixty 
years,  forsooth!— But  I'll  be  aveng'd  of  you.— Your  daughter 


The  Politician  Out-witted  379 

sha'n't  have  my  son — there,  sir, — how  do  you  like  that?  Sixty 
years,  indeed!  Ugh,  ugh. 

HUMPHRY.  What  an  old  reprobate  it  is!  He  swears  till  he 
sweats  again. 

TRUEMAN.   What  an  unlucky  affair!  [Aside. 

LOVEYET.  And  give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Schoolmaster, 
I  was  an  old — I — I  mean — I  was  a  great  fool  to  disparage  him  so 
much  as  to  think  of  the  match. 

TRUEMAN.  Illiberal  aspersion!  But  were  I  as  contemptible 
as  you  think  me,  a  disastrous  war  has  rendered  me  so;  and  as 
for  my  child,  Providence  has  placed  her  above  dependence  on  an 
unfortunate  father:  the  bequest  of  a  worthy  relation  has  made 
her,  what  the  world  calls,  rich;  but  her  mind — is  far  richer;  the 
most  amiable  temper,  improved  by  a  virtuous  and  refined  educa 
tion  (not  to  mention  her  beauty)  deservedly  makes  her  the  object 
of  general  love  and  respect,  and  renders  your  present  resolution 
a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  to  me. 

LOVEYET.  Well,  well,  so  be  it;  but  you  never  shall  be  Charles's 
father-in-law,  for  all  that — that's  as  fix'd  as  fate, — you  may  beg 
my  forgiveness  for  your  faults  by  and  by,  but  your  daughter  shall 
never  be  mine,  I  promise  you. 

TRUEMAN.   Conceited  old  sot!  [Exit. 

HUMPHRY.    He's  gone  at  last. 

LOVEYET.   What  brought  you  here,  pray? 

HUMPHRY.  Why,  my  legs,  to  be  sure. — Here,  old  gentleman, 
if  you'll  promise  you  won't  get  in  such  a  passion  as  you  did  just 
now,  I've  got  some  news  to  tell  you. 

LOVEYET.  I  in  a  passion?  'tis  no  such  thing — I  didn't  mind 
anything  he  said,  because  he's  old  and  fretful; — but  what  news, 
eigh — what  news? 

HUMPHRY.   Here's  a  letter  for  you.       [Gives  it  to  LOVEYET. 

LOVEYET.  [Opens  the  letter  and  reads.]  I  am  heartily  glad, 
'faith!  [Reads  again.} — 'Od's  my  life,  I'm  as  happy  as  the  Great 
Mogul,  and  as  good-natur'd — 

HUMPHRY.  That's  clever;  I  likes  to  see  people  good-natur'd, 
— it  makes  me  as  happy  as  the  Great  Pogul. 

LOVEYET.  I'll  go  tell  old  Trueman's  daughter,  Charles  is  com 
ing,  but  not  for  her — I  know  she'll  be  mortify'd,  poor  girl,  but  I 
can't  help  that.  Who  gave  you  this  letter? 

HUMPHRY.   Why  your  son,  to  be  sure. 

LOVEYET.   When  did  you  leave  the  Havanna,  pray? 


380  Representative  Plays 

HUMPHRY.   The  Havanna? 

LOVEYET.   Yes,  are  you  not  from  the  West-Indies? 

HUMPHRY.  Who — me? — not  I. 

LOVEYET.  Why,  what  the  plague  makes  you  think  he  was  my 
son,  then? 

HUMPHRY.  Because  he  said  you  was  his  father — that's  a  good 
reason,  an't  it?  But  it's  a  wise  son  knows  his  own  father,  as  the 
old  saying  is. 

LOVEYET.  How  can  that  be,  when  the  letter  is  dated  in  the 
Island  of  Cuba,  the  twentieth  day  of  January,  and  he  says  he 
don't  expect  to  leave  it  till  the  beginning  of  March,  and  this  is 
only  February,  so  it  is  impossible  he  shou'd  be  here  yet. 

HUMPHRY.   May  be  you  an't  the  old  gentleman,  then. 

LOVEYET.  To  be  sure  I  an't  an  old  gentleman.  Did  he  say  I 
was  old,  eigh? 

HUMPHRY.   Yes,  I  believe  he  did. 

LOVEYET.  I  believe  you  lie — and  I'll  let  you  know  that  I  an't 
old  enough  to  be  his  father,  you — 

HUMPHRY.  Well,  if  the  case  lies  there,  that  settles  the  harsh, 
d'  ye  see;  but,  for  my  part,  I  think  how  you  look  old  enough  and 
ugly  enough  to  be  his  great-grandfather,  as  the  old  saying  is. 

LOVEYET.  Sirrah,  get  out  of  my  house,  or  I'll  break  your  bones 
for  you. 

HUMPHRY.  I'm  a  going — howsomever,  give  me  the  letter 
again;  you've  got  no  business  with  it — you  an't  his  father. 

LOVEYET.  You  lie!  I  am  his  father — if  he  was  here,  he 
wou'dn't  deny  it. 

HUMPHRY.  Why,  he  is  here,  I  tell  you — here  in  New- York. 
I  suppose  how  he's  made  a  small  mistake  about  the  day  of  the 
month,  and  says  he's  just  arrived  from  the  East-Indies,  for  he's 
cursed  apt  for  to  make  blunders; — that  about  the  corn  and  the 
pigs;  ha,  ha,  ha. 

LOVEYET.    Do  you  laugh  at  me,  you  vagabond? 

HUMPHRY.  Not  I,  old  gentleman;  I've  got  too  much  respect 
for  old  age,  I'll  insure  you. 

LOVEYET.    I  shall  go  distracted ! 

HUMPHRY.  Put  on  your  spectacles  and  look  again — I'm  sure 
your  eyes  must  perceive  you,  for  I'll  give  my  corporal  oath  he 
an't  in  the  East-Indies. 

LOVEYET.  It  is  not  the  East-Indies,  you  great  calf;  you  mean 
the  West-Indies. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  381 

HUMPHRY.  No  matter  if  it's  East  or  West;  the  odds  an't  much 
for  the  matter  o'  that. 

LOVEYET.   What  an  abominable  fool ! 

HUMPHRY.   I'm  no  more  a  fool  than  you  are — 

LOVEYET.  Be  gone,  you  scoundrel!  Here,  Thomas — [Enter 
THOMAS.],  lug  this  fellow  out  of  doors. 

THOMAS.   Yes,  sir. 

HUMPHRY.   No,  you  sha'n't  tho',  d'  ye  see. 

THOMAS.  I'm  cursedly  afraid  of  the  great  two-handed  fellow 
too.  [Aside,  and  exit  with  HUMPHRY. 

LOVEYET  [manet]. 

Abusive  rascal !    But  I  won't  put  myself  in  a  passion  with  such 
a  vile  animal. — I — I'll  read  the  letter  again. 
"Honour'd  Sir, 

"I  have  just  time  enough  to  acquaint  you  by  the  Oceanus, 
Captain  Seaborn,  who  is  now  preparing  to  sail,  that  I  have  at 
length  adjusted  my  business  so  as  to  be  able  to  leave  this  place 
for  New-York,  the  beginning  of  March ;  in  which  case  you  may 
look  for  me  before  the  first  of  April  next;  when  I  promise  myself 
the  happiness  of  seeing  you  once  more,  and  enjoying  the  society 
of  the  best  of  parents:  till  then  I  shall  continue  to  be,  with  truly 
filial  attachment,  and  anxious  expectation  of  the  happy  event, 
your  obliged  and  dutiful  son, — CHARLES  LOVEYET." 

I  wonder  he  don't  say  anything  of  the  coffee  and  madeira  I 
wrote  to  him  about; — egad,  I  must  mind  the  main  chance;  a 
penny  sav'd,  is  a  penny  got;  and  charity  begins  at  home.  By 
strictly  attending  to  these  excellent  maxims,  I  am  worth  about 
five  and  twenty  per  cent,  more  than  any  other  merchant  in  the 
city;  and  as  for  that  stupid  proverb,  money  is  the  root  of  all 
evil,  'tis  well  enough  for  those  to  say  so,  who  have  none;  for  my 
part,  I  know  that  much  of  the  good  things  of  this  world  is  better 
than  not  enough — that  a  man  can  live  longer  upon  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds  than  one  thousand  pounds — that  if,  the  more 
we  have  the  more  we  want,  the  more  we  have  the  more  we  make — 
and  that  it  is  better  to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines  against  a 
rainy  day,  when  I  shall  be  upon  my  last  legs,  than  to  work  and  toil 
like  an  ass  in  the  rain ;  so  it  plainly  appears  that  money  is  the  root 
of  all  good ; — that's  my  logic. — I  long  to  see  the  young  rogue  tho' 
— I  dare  say  he  looks  very  like  his  father; — but,  had  I  thought  old 
Trueman  wou'd  have  us'd  me  so  ill,  I  wou'd  not  have  wrote  for 


382  Representative  Plays 

f 

him  yet;  for  he  shall  not  have  his  old  sweetheart: — if  he  offers  to 
disobey  me  in  this  respect,  by  my  body,  I'll  disinherit  the  ungra 
cious  dog  immediately.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.  Another  part  of  LOVEYET'S  House. 
DOLLY  and  THOMAS. 

THOMAS.  I've  set  a  bowl  of  grog  before  him,  pretty  much  to  the 
northward,  and  a  luncheon  of  bread  and  beef  almost  as  big  as  his 
head;  for  he  said  he  was  consumed  hungry. 

DOLLY.  I  language  to  behold  him; — but  I'm  afraid  he'll  be 
rude  to  a  body.  [Enter  HUMPHRY,  with  a  large  luncheon  of  bread 
and  butter.}  Oh,  as  I'm  alive,  it  is  Humphry;  old  Cubb,  the 
miller's  son !  Now  will  the  great  bear  be  for  rumpling  and  hugging 
a  body,  as  he  us'd  to  do.  [Aside. 

HUMPHRY.  How  d'  ye  do  again,  as  the  saying  is?  You're  a 
devilish  honest  fellow,  as  I'm  a  gentleman;  and  thank  'e  for 
your  frugality,  with  all  my  heart:  I've  eaten  up  all  the  beef  and 
grog,  so  I  thought  I  wou'd  go  to  the  cupboard,  and  cut  a  small 
slice  of  bread  and  butter,  d'  ye  see. 

THOMAS.  Why  didn't  you  cut  yourself  a  larger  slice,  while 
you  was  about  it? 

HUMPHRY.  Oh,  it's  big  enough,  thank  'e;  I  never  eat  much  at 
a  meal;  but  if  I  crave  more,  I'll  speak.  [Sees  DOLLY.]  Wha — 
what — Doll!  is  that  you?  Oh,  the  wonderful  works  of  nature! 
Who  'd  ha'  thought  to  ha'  found  you  here.  What,  don't  you  know 
me?  not  know  your  old  sweetheart?  By  Job,  I  want  to  buss  you, 
most  lasciviously.  [Crams  all  the  bread  in  his  mouth  in  haste, 
and  offers  to  kiss  her. — THOMAS  hinders  him. 

DOLLY.   Oh,  oh! 

THOMAS.  What,  do  you  dare  to  do  such  a  thing  before  me, 
you  country  brute? 

HUMPHRY.   Aye,  no  :ooner  said  than  done;  that's  my  way. 

THOMAS.  But  you  sha'n't  say  nor  do  your  lascivious  tricks 
before  me,  I  warrant  you. 

DOLLY.  Oh,  the  filthy  beast!  he  has  frightened  me  out  of  my 
seventy-seven  senses;  he  has  given  me  a  fever. 

HUMPHRY.  I  don't  care  if  you'll  give  me  a  favour,  or  not;  for 
I  don't  value  it  an  old  horse-shoe,  not  I ;  I  can  get  favours  enough 
in  New- York,  if  I  go  to  the  expense. — I  know  what — I  suppose 
you  forget  when  Jack  Wrestle,  the  country  mack-marony — 


The  Politician  Out-witted  383 

DOLLY.  Oh,  oh! 

HUMPHRY.  Why,  in  the  country  you  us'd  for  to  kiss  me  with 
out  axing. 

DOLLY.  I  scorn  your  words,  you  worthless  blackguard;  so 
I  do.  [Cries. 

THOMAS.  Sir,  I'd  have  you  to  know,  sir,  that  I  won't  suffer 
you,  sir,  to  abuse  this  young  lady,  sir,  in  this  manner,  sir;  and, 
sir — in  short,  sir,  you're  a  dirty  fellow,  for  your  pains,  sir. 

HUMPHRY.  And  you're  a  great  Utterly  lubber,  as  the  saying 
is;  and  if  you'll  be  so  friendly  as  for  to  fetch  the  mug  of  ale  you 
promis'd  me,  I'll  lick  you  out  of  pure  gratitude:  have  a  care — 
grog  makes  me  fight  like  a  tyger. 

THOMAS.  It's  a  bargain, — Ishou'd  be  sorry  to  try  you;  but 
I'll  go  lace  you  ale  a  little,  and  that  will  spoil  your  fighting,  I 
warrant  you.  [Aside,  and  exit. 

DOLLY.  You  sha'n't  fight  him. — Oh,  law,  I  wou'dn't  trust  my 
self  with  him  alone,  for  the  riches  of  the  Indians!  [Exit,  after  him. 

HUMPHRY.  [Mimicking  her.}  What  an  unfaithless  trollop! 
She's  got  to  be  very  vartuous  since  she's  liv'd  in  town,  but 
vartue  is  but  skin  deep,  as  the  saying  is: — wou'dn't  even  let  me 
kiss  her; — I  meant  nothing  but  the  genteel  thing  neither, — all 
in  an  honest  way.  I  wonder  what  she  can  see  in  that  clumsy 
booby's  face,  for  to  take  his  part,  sooner  than  I! — but  I'll  go 
buy  a  new  coat  and  breeches,  and  get  my  head  fricaseed,  and 
my  beard  comb'd  a  little,  and  then  I'll  cut  a  dash  with  the 
best  on  'em.  I'll  go  see  where  that  ill-looking  fellow  stays  with 
the  ale.  [Exit. 

End  of  the  Second  Act. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.  A  Barber's  Shop. 

HUMPHRY  in  new  clothes,  reading  a  newspaper. — 
TOUPEE  shaving  him. 

HUMPHRY.  Pray  now,  master  barber,  what  does  Constitution 
mean?  I  hears  so  many  people  a  quarrelling  about  it, — I  wish  I 
cou'd  get  somebody  to  give  me  the  exclamation  of  it;  here  it  is 
among  the  news  too.  It's  spelt  C,  O,  N,  con — S,  T,  I,  sti — consti 
— T,  U,  tu — constitu — T,  I,  ti — constituti — O,  N,  on — con-sti- 


384  Representative  Plays 

tu-ti-on, — but  your  city  folks  calls  it  Constitushon;  they've  got 
such  a  queer  pronouncication. 

TOUPEE.   Vat  you  please,  sare? 

HUMPHRY.  Yes,  it  pleases  me  well  enough;  I  only  want  to 
know  what  it  magnifies. 

TOUPEE.   Je  ne  vous  entens  pas,  monsieur. 

HUMPHRY.  Why,  what  outlandish  dialogue  is  that  you're 
a  talking?  I  can't  understand  your  lingo  as  well  as  the  School 
master's,  with  his  monstrous  memorandums,  and  his  ignorant 
mouses. 

TOUPEE.  You  be  'quainted  with  monsieur  de  Schoolmastare, 
monsieur? 

HUMPHRY.  Yes,  mounsieur;  he  and  the  consumptive  old  gen 
tleman,  old  what's  his  name,  was  a  wrangling  about  that  con 
founded  name  that  I  was  axing  you  about; — caw-con- [Looks  at 
the  paper.  ]  aye,  Constitution. 

TOUPEE.  Dat  Constitution  is  no  bon; — de  Schoolmastare  vas 
strike  me  for  dat.  By  gar,  I  get  de  satisfaction ! 

HUMPHRY.   He  talks  as  crooked  as  a  Guinea  niger.       [Aside. 

TOUPEE.  He  vas  call  me — ah,  le  diable! — block;  dis — [Points 
to  his  head.]  blockhead,  oui,  blockhead. 

HUMPHRY.    If  you've  got  a  mind,   I'll  lather  him  for  you. 

TOUPEE.    Yes;  den  I  vill  lader  you  for  nothing. 

HUMPHRY.  You  lather  me  for  nothing? — I'll  lather  you  for 
less  yet,  you  barber-looking — 

TOUPEE.    No,  no;  me  lader  you  so.    [Lathers  HUMPHRY'S  face. 

HUMPHRY.  Oh,  with  soap-suds,  you  mean: — I  ax  pardon, 
mounsieur;  I  thought  how  you  was  a  going  for  to  lather  me  with 
out  soap-suds  or  razor,  as  the  old  proverb  is. 

TOUPEE.   Dat  is  no  possible,  monsieur. 

HUMPHRY.  I  believe  not;  you  shou'd  be  shav'd  as  clean  as  a 
whistle,  if  you  was;  'faith  should  you. 

TOUPEE.  Yes,  I  will  shave  you  very  clean; — here  is  de  bon 
razor  for  shave  de  beard.  [Draws  the  razor  over  the  back  of 
HUMPHRY'S  hand,  to  shew  him  it  can  cut  a  hair.] 

HUMPHRY.  [Bellowing  out.]  You  ill-looking,  lousy,  beard- 
combing,  head-shaving  rascal !  Did  you  ever  know  any  body  for 
to  have  a  beard  upon  their  hand? 

TOUPEE.   You  be  von  big  'merican  brute,  sur  mon  ame! 

HUMPHRY.  You  lie,  as  the  saying  is.  What  a  mouth  he  makes 
whenever  he  goes  for  to  talk  his  gibberage! — He  screws  it  up 


The  Politician  Out-witted  385 

for  all  the  world  like  a  pickled  oyster.    I  must  have  a  care  I  don't 
get  some  of  that  snuff  out  of  his  nose. 

TOUPEE.   You  please  for  taste  de  snuff? 

HUMPHRY.  I  don't  care  if  I  smell  some.  [Takes  a  pinch  of 
snuff,  which  makes  him  sneeze,  while  TOUPEE  is  shaving 
him;  by  which  he  gets  his  face  cut.  ] 

TOUPEE.    Prenez  garde  a  vous! 

HUMPHRY.   The  devil  take  the  snuff  and  you!  [Going. 

TOUPEE.  S'il  vous  plait,  monsieur,  you  vill  please  for  take  de 
— de — vat  is  dat — de  lettre — de  shallange  to  monsieur  de  School- 
mastare,  for  fight  me? 

HUMPHRY.  Yes,  that  I  will,  with  the  most  carefullest  manner; 
— he  shall  have  it  in  the  greatest  pleasure. 

[TOUPEE  gives  a  paper  to  HUMPHRY. 

TOUPEE.  Dat  is  de  bon  civility, — I  vill  be  your — a — very  good 
friend. 

HUMPHRY.   Thank  'e  kindly,  Mounsieur.       [Exeunt,  severally. 

SCENE  II.   A  Street. 
Enter  YOUNG  LOVEYET  and  HUMPHRY. 

LOVEYET.    Not  find  where  he  lives? 

HUMPHRY.  No; — you're  the  most  unluckiest  gentleman  for 
making  of  blunders, — didn't  you  tell  me  how  your  father  liv'd 
in  number  two  hundred  and  fifty,  in  Queen-Street,  in  the  three- 
story  brick  house? 

LOVEYET.    I  did;  is  not  that  the  house? 

HUMPHRY.   No — why,  your  father  don't  live  there. 

LOVEYET.    Did  you  enquire  for  Mr.  Loveyet? 

HUMPHRY.   Yes,  I  saw  Mr.  Loveyet. 

LOVEYET.  The  devil  is  in  the  fellow,  I  believe.  Did  you  give 
him  my  letter? 

HUMPHRY,   Yes,  but  I  didn't  want  to. 

LOVEYET.  Why  not? 

HUMPHRY.    Becase  I  wanted  for  to  carry  it  to  your  father. 

LOVEYET.  What  makes  you  think  Mr.  Loveyet  is  not  my  father? 

HUMPHRY.  Somebody  told  me  so  that's  got  a  good  right  to 
know;  I've  his  own  words  for  it. 

LOVEYET.    My  father  tell  you  so? 

HUMPHRY.  The  young  man  is  crazy,  I  believe. — I  say  Mr. 
Loveyet  said  you  wasn't  his  son;  so  I  suppose  he  can't  be  your 
father  by  that. 


386  Representative  Plays 

LOVEYET.  I  forgot  that  the  letter  would  probably  produce  this 
misunderstanding.  [Aside.] — He  is  the  only  one  I  know,  whom  I 
have  a  right  to  call  my  father. 

HUMPHRY.  May  be  you're  the  old  fellow's  bastard,  and  if 
you're  a  bastard,  you  can't  be  a  son,  you  know:  aye,  that's  the 
catch,  I  suppose. 

LOVEYET.   Your  new  clothes  make  you  quite  smart,  Mr.  Cubb. 

HUMPHRY.  Yes,  don't  I  look  quite  smart,  with  these  here  new 
clothes?  they're  all  new,  I'll  insure  you — only  a  little  the  worse 
for  wear;  I  bought  'em  at  the  vandue  option,  at  the  Fly-Market. 

LOVEYET.  But  how  came  you  by  that  patch  on  one  side  of 
your  face,  and  that  large  crop  of  beard  on  the  other? 

HUMPHRY.  Mounsieur,  the  outlandish  barber,  give  me  a  small 
cut  across  the  whiskers;  but  the  best  of  all  you  ha'n't  seen  yet; 
— see  here.  [Pulls  off  his  hat. 

LOVEYET.  Aye,  now  you  look  something  like — quite  fierce — 
entirely  the  fine  gentleman,  upon  my  falsehood.  A  genteel  dress 
is  the  very  soul  of  a  man,  Mr.  Cubb. 

HUMPHRY.  Like  enough,  for  I've  got  more  soul  to  shew  myself, 
now  I  cut  such  a  dash;  I've  got  a  soul  to  see  the  shews  at  the 
play-house;  and,  I  think,  I've  got  a  great  deal  more  soul  to  spend 
a  few  shillings  at  the  ale-house. 

LOVEYET.  That's  true;  I'm  glad  you  remind  me  of  my 
promise. 

HUMPHRY.   Not  I,  I  didn't  remind  you, — I  scorn  it. 

LOVEYET.  I  dare  say  you  do.  [Gives  him  money.]  There, 
drink  my  health  with  that. 

HUMPHRY.  With  all  my  heart — soul,  I  mean; — aye,  here's  soul 
enough — [Jingling  the  money.] — to  buy  the  matter  o'  twenty 
mugs; — come,  let's  go  at  once. 

LOVEYET.  I? — excuse  me,  sir;  I  have  particular  business  else 
where. — Sir,  your  most  humble  servant. 

HUMPHRY.  Sir,  I  am  your  most  humble  sarvint  too.  [Bows 
awkwardly.)  [Exeunt,  severally. 

SCENE  III.   MR.  FRIENDLY'S  House. 

Enter  HARRIET. 

[Knocking  at  the  door.]  What  an  incessant  knocking!  Mr. 
Friendly's  family  are  out,  and  between  their  company  and  my 
own,  I  expect  to  be  engaged  all  day:  I  am  fairly  tired  of  these 
morning  visits; — they  are  fashionable,  and,  therefore,  agreeable, 


The  Politician  Out-witted  387 

to  those  who  can  make  propriety  and  happiness  subservient  to 
custom  and  false  politeness;  but,  for  my  part — 

Enter  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.    Miss  Airy  is  waiting  in  her  carriage,  madam. 
HARRIET.   Admit  her.   [Exit  SERVANT.]  She  is  the  only  one  I 
wish  to  see  this  morning. 

Enter  MARIA. 

MARIA.  My  dear  Harriet,  I  am  rejoic'd  to  find  you  at  home; 
— I  this  minute  heard  something,  which  I  knew  would  make  you 
happy ;  and  that,  I  trust,  is  a  good  excuse  for  troubling  you  twice 
a  day  with  my  company. 

HARRIET.  You  wrong  my  friendship,  Maria,  if  you  think  you 
can  oblige  me  too  often  with  your  desirable  company;  'tis  true  I 
was  wishing  for  a  little  cessation  of  that  torrent  of  formal  visitors 
which  is  pouring  in  from  morning  till  night;  but  far  be  it  from 
Harriet  to  reckon  her  Maria  among  that  number. 

MARIA.  You  are  very  good,  my  dear;  but  you  must  give  me 
leave  to  be  a  little  jealous  that  I  am  not  the  only  one  who  is  fa 
voured  with  such  a  preference. 

HARRIET.  Indeed,  I  do  not  know  any  one  I  have  a  particular 
desire  to  see  this  morning,  except  yourself. 

MARIA.   You  forget  Mr.  Loveyet,  when  you  say  so. 

HARRIET.   Poh !    I  am  not  talking  of  men. 

MARIA.   No;  but  it  is  very  probable  you  are  thinking  of  a  man. 

HARRIET.  And  pray  what  reason  have  you  to  think,  that  my 
thoughts  run  upon  such  an  improper  subject? 

MARIA.  Improper  subject,  — ha,  ha,  ha.  So  my  very  discreet, 
prudish  little  Harriet  never  lets  man  enter  into  her  head;  tho' 
it  is  pretty  notorious  somebody  has  enter'd  into  her  heart  long  ago. 

HARRIET.  Your  discernment  must  be  very  subtle,  if  you  know 
all  that  is  in  my  heart. 

MARIA.  I  only  judge  of  your  heart,  by  your  tongue;  and  the 
abundance  of  the  former  is  generally  inferred  from  the  speech  of 
the  latter. — Yes,  yes — that  constant,  hypocritical  heart  of  yours 
is  now  throbbing  with  love,  hope,  curiosity,  and — a  thousand 
speechless  sensations,  the  improper  subject  of  which,  I  do  not 
hesitate  to  declare,  is  odious  man;  and  that  man,  the  accom 
plished  Mr.  Loveyet.  i 

HARRIET.   Pshaw, — how  can  you  tantalize  one  so? 


388  Representative  Plays 

MARIA.  Well,  well,  it  shall  not  be  serv'd  like  Tantalus  any 
more:  he  was  doom'd  to  behold;  and,  beholding,  to  wish  and 
languish  for  the  tempting  draught,  in  vain:  but  a  better  doom 
awaits  the  happy  Harriet; — what  she  desires  is  not  thus  inter 
dicted,  but  will  soon  be  obtain'd,  and — 

HARRIET.   How  strangely  you  talk,  Maria. 

MARIA.  Well,  I  will  not  keep  you  in  suspense  any  longer.  Old 
Mr.  Loveyet  has  received  a  letter  from  his  son,  signifying  his  in 
tention  to  leave  the  West-Indies  shortly  after  its  date,  so  you  may 
expect  to  see  him  very  soon.  Then  hey  for  a  wedding,  &c. 

HARRIET.   Ha,  ha;  you  are  a  droll  girl. 

MARIA.  But  my  time  is  precious;  I  am  just  going  to  the  widow 
Affable's: — about  twelve  months  ago  she  paid  me  a  visit,  when, 
agreeably  to  the  form  in  such  cases  made  and  provided,  she  beg'd 
I  would  be  more  sociable,  and  she  would  take  it  so  kindly  of  me : 
— accordingly  I  shall  step  in  en  passant,  to  shew  her  my  sociabil 
ity  and  kindness,  which  I  shall,  perhaps,  repeat  at  the  end  of 
another  year. 

HARRIET.  How  can  you  be  so  cruel?  The  pleasure  I  experi 
ence  in  your  society,  makes  me  regret  that  any  one  should  be  de 
prived  of  it. 

MARIA.  That  is  very  strange: — I  should  imagine,  if  you  priz'd 
my  company  so  much,  you  would  wish  me  to  withhold  it  from 
others;  because,  the  more  I  bless  them  with  my  presence,  the 
less  will  come  to  your  share,  you  know,  my  dear; — nor  is  it  easy 
to  conceive  how  you  could  be  so  fond  of  my  sweet  person,  without 
being  jealous  at  the  partiality  of  others; — but,  after  all,  good  peo 
ple,  they  say,  are  scarce ;  and  my  humble  admirers  shall  find  the 
saying  verified  in  me;  because  they  are  not  fully  sensible  of  my 
superior  value;  but,  since  you  prove  the  contrary,  by  extolling 
my  conversation  and  friendship  so  much,  I  likewise  shall  observe 
a  contrary  conduct,  and  indulge  you  with  a  tete-a-tete  frequently, 
my  dear. — But  I  have  fifty  places  to  call  at  yet: — I  am  to  wait  on 
Miss  Nancy  Startup,  Miss  Biddy  Dresswise,  Miss  Gaudy,  Miss 
Titterwell,  Mrs.  Furbelow,  Mrs.  Neverhome,  Mrs —  et  c&tem, 
et  ccetera;  which  visits  I  mean  to  pay  with  all  the  formality  and 
fashionable  shortness  in  my  power:  from  thence  I  shall  proceed 
to  Mademoiselle  Mincit,  the  milliner;  from  thence  to  two  or 
three  score  of  shops  in  William-Street,  to  buy  a  prodigious  num 
ber  of  important — 

HARRIET.   Trifles. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  389 

MARIA.  You  are  right,  my  dear; — as  I  live,  I  would  not  be  one 
of  those  officious  "Nothing  else,  Ma'ms?"  for  all  the  goods  from 
the  North  Church  to  Maiden-Lane. — Adieu, — I  leave  you  to 
meditate  on  what  I  have  told  you. 

HARRIET.  Farewell.  [Exit  MARIA.]  Now  Maria  is  gone,  I 
will  see  no  more  company. — If  anything  can  be  an  excuse  for  a 
falsehood,  the  present  occasion  offers  a  very  good  one: — I  feel  my 
mind  pretty  much  at  ease,  and  I  do  not  choose  to  have  it  disturbed 
by  the  impertinence  of  pretended  friends. — Who  is  there? 

Enter  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.   Madam. 

HARRIET.  Whoever  calls  to  see  me  to-day,  remember  I  am  not 
at  home. 

SERVANT.  Mr.  Worthnought  is  here  now,  Madam;  must  I 
deny  you  to  him? 

HARRIET.  Undoubtedly.  [Exit  SERVANT.]  I  am  disgusted 
with  the  repetition  of  that  coxcomb's  nonsense. — [Sighs.] — I  wish 
Charles  was  here: — In  spite  of  the  false  delicacy  of  that  tyrant, 
Custom,  which  forbids  us  to  speak  the  exquisite  effusions  of  a  sus 
ceptible  heart,  I  can  now  speak  boldly,  while  that  heart  dictates 
to  the  willing  tongue  what  complacence  it  feels  at  the  prospect  of 
its  Charles's  return.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.  Another  part  of  MR.  FRIENDLY'S  House. 
WORTHNOUGHT,  discovered  solus. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Who  comes  here!  He  sha'n't  see  her,  if  I 
don't,  'foregad — Curse  me,  but  he  shall  go  away  with  a  flea  in 
his  ear. 

Enter  YOUNG  LOVEYET,  followed  by  HUMPHRY. 

HUMPHRY.  Mr.  Lovit — Mr.  Lovit. — [Takes  him  aside.]  As  I 
was  a  going  along,  d'  ye  see,  I  see  you  pop  in  here,  and  so  I  follow'd 
you,  to  tell  you,  how  old  Mr.  Lovit  said  he  was  intend  for  to  go 
for  to  see  the  old  fellow's  daughter,  to  tell  her  something  about 
the  letter.  Don't  Mrs.  Harriet  live  here? 

LOVEYET.  I'll  make  haste,  and  supersede  the  design  of  his 
errand,  if  possible; — it  would  be  a  pity  he  should  come  before  I 
had  appriz'd  Harriet  I  was  not  in  the  West-Indies.  [Aside.] 
— I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  information.  [To  HUMPHRY. 


39°  Representative  Plays 

HUMPHRY.  Thank  'e,  as  the  saying  is.  [Going, — WORTHNOUGHT 
whispers  with  him.] — What's  that  to  you? — How  clumsy  moun- 
sieur  has  dress'd  his  calabash! — Powder'd  over  the  face  and 
eyes.  [Exit. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  I  wish  I  knew  what  he  wanted  with  him; — 
perhaps  it  is  something  about  me.  [Aside. 

LOVEYET.  What  Butterfly  is  this  we  have  here! — I  suppose  it 
is  the  fop,  Frankton  mentioned.  [Aside. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Sir,  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  with  the  pro- 
foundest  respect  and  esteem,  your  most  obedient,  most  devoted, 
and  most  obliged  humble  slave,  foy  d'Homme  d'Honnetir — Tol  lol, 
&c.  [Sings. 

LOVEYET.  A  very  pompous  salutation,  truly.  [Aside.] — Your 
polite  address  does  me  too  much  honour,  sir; — I  cannot  conceive 
how  you  can  be  my  obliged  slave,  as  I  do  not  recollect  I  ever  saw 
you  before. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Why,  sir,  I'll  tell  you: — Your  appearance, 
sir,  bespeaks  the  gentleman  of  distinction,  sir, — 

LOVEYET.    My  appearance; — superficial  coxcomb!  [Aside. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Tis  true,  my  words  were  words  of  course; 
but  I  meant  every  word,  sir,  'pon  hanor. — "Cupid,  Gad  of  saft 
persuasion,  &c."  [Sings  affectedly,  and  takes  snuff. 

LOVEYET.  Humph, — To  whom,  sir,  am  I  indebted,  for  so  much 
civility? 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Dick  Worthnought,  esquire,  at  your  service, 
sir. 

LOVEYET.  The  very  fool.  [Aside. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  And  give  me  leave  to  add,  sir,  that  I  feel  the 
highest  felicity,  that  you  have  given  me  so  good  an  opportunity 
of  asking  you,  in  my  turn,  for  the  favour  of  your  name,  sir. 

LOVEYET.  My  name  is  Loveyet,  sir. — With  what  solemnity  the 
coxcomb  talks !  [A  side. 

WORTHNOUGHT.   A  native  of  this  city,  I  presume,  Mr.  Loveyet. 

LOVEYET.  I  am,  sir;  but  I  have  been  absent  for  some  years, 
and,  as  I  was  a  youth  when  I  left  the  city,  I  cannot  be  supposed  to 
have  retained  much  of  the  Yorker. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Pardon  me,  sir; — to  a  person  of  penetration, 
the  Yorker  is  still  conspicuous  under  the  disguise  of  the  foreigner; 
and  I  am  proud  to  have  the  hanor  of  being  your  countryman,  sir. 

LOVEYET.   I  fancy  the  honour  is  by  no  means  reciprocal.  [Aside. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  391 

WORTHNOUGHT.  You  are  acquainted  with  Miss  Harriet  True- 
man,  I  presume,  Mr.  Loveyet. 

LOVEYET.    I  was  formerly  acquainted  with  the  lady. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  You  must  know,  sir,  that  your  humble  ser 
vant  has  the  hanor  and  felicity  of  being  that  lady's  very  humble 
admirer. 

LOVEYET.  I  dare  say  she  is  admired  by  all  who  have  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  her. 

WORTHNOUGHT.   Give  me  leave,  sir, — I  mean  her  lover. 

LOVEYET.   Conceited  ape!  [Aside. 

WORTHNOUGHT.    You  have  no  pretensions,  sir,  I  presume. 

LOVEYET.   Pretensions? 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Aye,  sir;  I  thought  you  might  have  a  small 
penchant,  as  the  French  call  it; — you  apprehend  me;  but  she 
don't  intend  to  see  company  to-day.  I  am  monstrously  cha- 
grin'd,  sir,  'foregad,  that  I  have  it  not  in  my  power  to  introduce 
you  to  the  divine  mistress  of  my  heart;  but,  as  matters  are  cir- 
cumstanc'd,  I  think  it  is  not  worth  our  while  to  stay. 

LOVEYET.    I  mean  to  see  Miss  Trueman  before  I  shall  think  so. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Oh,  fie,  sir; — you  wou'd  not  force  a  lady  to 
give  you  her  company  against  her  inclination: — perhaps,  indeed, 
she  may  appear  to  receive  you  with  some  warmth,  and  you  may 
flatter  yourself  you  have  fairly  made  a  canquest  of  her,  and  think 
Dick  Worthnought  esquire,  is  out-rival'd;  but  if  so,  you  are 
most  demnably  bit,  'foregad,  for  she's  as  slippery  as  ice,  tho* 
not  quite  so  cold; — she  is  the  very  standard  of  true  modern 
coquetry,  the  quintessence  of  the  beau-monde,  and  the  com- 
pletest  example  of  New- York  levity,  that  New- York  has  the 
hanor  to  call  its  beautiful  inhabitant:  ha,  ha, — she'll  jilt  you; 
— however,  the  dear  creature,  with  all  her  amiable  foibles,  has 
been  so  profuse  of  her  attention  to  me,  that  I  should  be  ungrateful 
not  to  acknowledge  the  various  favours  she  has  hanor'd  me 
with. 

LOVEYET.  Consummate  impudence!  [Aside.] — Miss  True- 
man's  character  is  well  known,  sir. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Miss  Trueman's  character!  Demme,  sir,  do 
you  mean  to  say  anything  against  her  character? 

LOVEYET.  No; — and  I  will  take  care  you  shall  not,  with  im 
punity. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  You  are  the  most  unmannerly  fellow  I  ever 
convers'd  with,  'pan  hanor. 


392  Representative  Plays 

LOVEYET.  And  you  the  most  contemptible  puppy;  or  that 
fellow  would  be  unmannerly  enough  to  chastise  you  for  your  in 
solence. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  That's  a  demnable  rub,  demme; — curse  him, 
I'm  afraid  he  isn't  afraid  of  me,  after  all.  [Aside.] — You  wou'd 
find  me  as  brave  as  yourself  then;  demme,  but  you  wou'd. 

LOVEYET.    I'll  try  you.     [Offers  to  cane  him,  which  makes  him 
cry  out. — Then  enter  HARRIET,  hastily.] 

HARRIET.  Oh,  dear! — what's  the  matter? 

[Seeing  CHARLES,  she  shrieks. 

LOVEYET.   My  dearest, — my  adorable  Harriet! 

HARRIET.  Is  it  possible?  I  did  not  dream  that  Mr.  Loveyet 
was  the  person  who  wanted  to  see  me. 

LOVEYET.  And  am  I  again  blest  with  a  sight  of  the  dear  object 

of  all  my  wishes  and  affections! — I  thank  you,  heaven;  you  have 

been  bountiful,  indeed!    The  rolling  billows,  under  your  propi- 

V  tious  guidance,  have  at  length  wafted  me  to  my  native  land,  to 

love  and  my  dear  Harriet. 

WORTHNOUGHT.   What  the  devil  does  he  mean!          [Aside. 

HARRIET.  Your  unexpected  appearance,  and  the  unaccount 
able  circumstance  which  attends  it,  have  discomposed  me  in  such 
a  manner,  that  I  cannot  express,  as  I  wish,  how  happy  I  am  in 
your  safe  arrival. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Hah, — happy  in  his  arrival!  If  so,  she  will 
not  be  very  happy  in  his  rival,  I'm  afraid.  [Aside. 

LOVEYET.  I  will  explain  the  occasion  of  my  charmer's  fright 
immediately; — at  present  I  can  only  tell  you  that  your  wou'd-be 
lover,  here — 

HARRIET.   My  lover! 

LOVEYET.  So  he  confidently  call'd  himself,  and  took  such  other 
insufferably  vain  and  impudent  freedoms  with  your  name,  that  I 
attempted  to  give  him  a  little  wholesome  admonition  with  this,  if 
his  effeminate  cries  had  not  brought  my  lovely  Harriet  in  to  pre 
vent  me;  but  the  very  attempt  has  proved  him  to  be  the  basest 
of  dastards.  [While  he  is  saying  this,  WORTHNOUGHT  makes  several 
attempts  to  interrupt  him.  ] 

HARRIET.  [To  WORTHNOUGHT.]  I  am  equally  surpriz'd  and 
incens'd,  sir,  that  you  would  dare  to  take  such  freedoms  with 
my  name. 

LOVEYET.  Be  assured,  Miss  Harriet,  if  you  condescend  to 
grant  your  valuable  company  to  such  superficial  gentry,  they  will 


The  Politician  Out-witted  393 

ever  prove  themselves  as  unworthy  of  it  as  he  has;  but  your 
goodness  does  not  let  you  suspect  the  use  which  such  characters 
make  of  the  intimacy  they  are  honour'd  with,  or  you  would  spurn 
their  unmeaning  flattery,  and  ridiculous  fopperies,  with  indigna 
tion. 

HARRIET.  I  ever  till  now  consider'd  him  as  a  respectful,  well- 
meaning  person,  as  far  as  regarded  myself;  and  as  such,  gave  him 
a  prudent  share  of  my  civilities;  but  I  never  thought  either  his 
intellects  or  his  person  sufficient  to  entitle  him  to  a  partial  inti 
macy. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  You  cannot  deny,  madam,  that  I  have  re 
peatedly  experienced  the  most  flattering  proofs  of  your  partiality, 
that  a  lady  (who  values  her  reputation)  can  ever  bestow  on  her 
admirer. 

HARRIET.  Contemptible  thing!  An  admirer,  forsooth!  Of 
what? — Your  ideas  are  too  mean  and  frothy  to  let  you  admire 
anything  but  my  dress,  or  some  other  trifle  as  empty  and  super 
ficial  as  the  trifler  I  am  speaking  to.  My  demeanour  towards 
you  was  nothing  but  the  effect  of  cheerfulness  and  politeness; 
qualities  which,  I  believe,  are  inherent  in  me,  and  of  which, 
therefore,  all  with  whom  I  am  acquainted  are  the  objects;  but 
your  present  unmanly  and  insupportably  impudent  discourse, 
makes  me  despise  myself  almost  as  much  as  you,  for  allowing  such 
a  wretch  even  that  small  degree  of  attention  which  he  so  illy  de 
served. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  You  are  very  insulting,  madam,  'pan  hanor. — 

LOVEYET.  How  apt  such  fellows  are  to  have  honour  in  their 
mouths.  [Aside. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  This  is  only  a  trick  to  conceal  your  incon 
stancy  during  his  absence;  but  it  is  the  nature  of  the  sex  to  de 
ceive  us. 

HARRIET.  Tis  the  nature  of  a  fool  to  say  so;  and  if  that  fool 
does  not  instantly  quit  the  subject  and  the  house  together,  I  must 
request  the  favour  of  Mr.  Loveyet  to  make  him. 

LOVEYET.  "As  matters  are  circumstanced,  Mr.  Worthnought, 
I  think  it  is  not  worth  your  while  to  stay." 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Her  unparallel'd  rudeness  shall  not  compel 
me  to  leave  the  house,  till  I  please. 

LOVEYET.  "Oh,  fie,  sir, — you  would  not  force  a  lady  to  give 
you  her  company  against  her  inclination." 


394  Representative  Plays 

WORTHNOUGHT.  You  are  very  fond  of  echoing  my  words,  it 
seems. 

LOVEYET.  Yes,  when  I  can  apply  them  to  your  disappoint 
ment  and  disgrace. — "I  am  monstrously  chagrin'd,  sir,  'foregad, 
that  I  have  it  not  in  my  power  to  introduce  you  to  the  divine  mis 
tress  of  my  heart."  Ha,  ha,  ha. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Tis  very  well, — I  will  have  revenge; — if  the 
laws  of  politeness  (which  I  would  rather  die  than  infringe)  did  not 
forbid  swearing  before  a  lady  [In  a  contemptuous  tone.  ],  curse  me, 
but  I  would  d n  you  for  a — 

LOVEYET.  [Interrupting  him.] — "You  must  know,  sir,  I  have 
the  hanor  and  felicity  of  being  this  lady's  very  humble  admirer." 
— You  have  failed  in  your  predictions,  I  think,  sir. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Yes,  and  she  shall  soon  pay  for  her  duplicity; 
tho'  I  would  not  have  you  think  that  her  ill  usage  mortifies  me  in 
the  least:  I  never  was  in  love  with  her,  nor  did  I  ever  intend  mar 
riage,  which  is  more  than  she  can  say;  and,  I  believe,  it  is  fortu 
nate  for  us  both,  that  you  arriv'd  when  you  did,  or  something 
might  have  happened,  which  would  have  obliged  me  to  marry  her, 
merely  to  prevent  her  from  being  miserable. — Ha,  ha,  ha.  Tol 
lol,  &c.  [Exit. 

HARRIET.   What  a  superlative  wretch! 

LOVEYET.  He  is  too  contemptible  to  cost  you  a  thought, 
Harriet: — none  but  the  puppy  tribe,  and  a  few  splenetic  old 
maids,  will  pay  any  attention  to  his  slander;  they,  no  doubt,  will 
spread  it  with  avidity; — but  to  be  traduced  by  such,  is  to  be 
praised. — Hah! — there  comes  my  father; — I  forgot  to  tell  you  I 
expected  him  here :  I  will  try  if  he  knows  me. 

Enter  OLD  LOVEYET. 

OLD  LOVEYET.  Madam,  your  most  obedient; — Sir,  your 
servant. 

LOVEYET.  [Bows.]  I  find  he  does  not  know  me: — Nature,  be 
still ;  for  now  I  feel  he  is  indeed  my  father. 

HARRIET.    Mr.  Loveyet,  I  am  happy  to  see  you. 

OLD  LOVEYET.  She  would  not  be  quite  so  happy,  if  she  knew 
my  errand.  [Aside.] — I  have  waited  on  you,  madam,  upon  disa 
greeable  business. 

HARRIET.  How,  sir? — I  beg  you  will  not  leave  me  in  suspense: 
What  is  it? 


The  Politician  Out-witted  395 

OLD  LOVEYET.  It  is  a  matter  of  a  delicate  nature,  madam,  and 
therefore,  must  not  be  spoken  at  random. 

LOVEYET.    Heaven  avert  any  unfavourable  event!         [Aside. 

HARRIET.  Mr.  Loveyet,  your  cautious  innuendoes  give  me  sen 
sible  uneasiness. 

LOVEYET.  I  will  withdraw,  Miss  Trueman; — My  love — friend 
ship,  I  would  say,  though  it  wishes  to  afford  you  happiness,  and 
participate  in  your  troubles,  does  not  presume  to  intrude  on  the 
private  conversation  Mr.  Loveyet  wishes. 

HARRIET.    I  dare  say  your  presence  is  no  restraint,  sir. 

OLD  LOVEYET.  I  don't  know  that,  madam:  pray,  who  is  the 
gentleman? 

HARRIET.   The  gentleman  is  my  very  particular  friend,  sir. 

OLD  LOVEYET.  By  my  body,  here  is  rare  wo/k  going  on. — 
[Aside.] — Well,  madam,  as  the  gentleman  is  your  very  particular 
friend;  and  as  his  love — friendship,  I  mean,  is  so  great,  that  you 
dare  to  entrust  all  your  secrets  with  him;  I  shall  acquaint  you, 
that,  as  you  and  my  son  have  long  entertained  a  partiality  for 
each  other,  and  being  desirous  to  fulfill  all  my  engagements,  as 
well  as  to  make  him  happy,  I  have  wrote  for  him  to  come  and  con 
clude  the  marriage;  but,  for  very  good  reasons,  I  have  this  day 
determined  to  forbid  the  bans;  and  Mr.  Trueman  says,  he  is  very 
willing  too. 

LOVEYET.   Hah! — what  can  all  this  mean?  [Aside. 

OLD  LOVEYET.  You  must  know,  madam,  your  father  has  us'd 
me  very  ill;  and — to  be  plain  with  you,  madam,  your  familiarity 
with  this  person,  convinces  me  you  wou'd  have  play'd  the  fool 
with  my  son,  without  my  breaking  the  match.  Ugh,  ugh. 

LOVEYET,  The  old  gentleman  imagines  I  am  going  to  cut  my 
self  out,  it  seems.  [Aside  to  HARRIET. 

HARRIET.  You  do  not  know  who  this  is,  sir,  or  you  would  not 
put  any  improper  constructions  on  the  friendly  freedom  you  have 
observ'd  between  us. 

LOVEYET.  True;  and,  therefore,  you  need  not  be  concerned 
at  what  he  says. — Since  he  has  made  this  unlucky  resolution,  he 
must  not  know  who  I  am.  [Aside  to  HARRIET. 

OLD  LOVEYET.  How  well  she  dissembles! — Friendly  freedom, — 
a  pretty  term  that,  for  the  wanton  hussy.  [Aside.]  — I  wish 
Charles  was  here  now;  he  wou'd  acknowledge  his  father's  kind 
ness  in  preventing  a  match,  which,  I  am  sure,  would  end  in  sor 
row  and  disappointment. 


396  Representative  Plays 

LOVEYET.  I  doubt  that  much. — This  parent  of  mine  is  a  sin 
gular  character.  [Aside  to  HARRIET. 

HARRIET.  It  is  necessary  you  should  be  made  acquainted  with 
some  of  his  oddities:  his  most  striking  peculiarity  is  a  desire  to 
be  thought  younger  than  he  is;  and,  I  dare  say,  some  remark  of 
my  father,  respecting  his  age,  is  the  only  cause  of  his  present  ill 
humour. 

OLD  LOVEYET.  Look  how  they  whisper! — well,  she  is  the  most 
brazen  coquette  I  ever  knew! — Yes,  yes,  now  her  scandalous  con 
duct  is  glaring  enough.  [Aside.]  — I  wish  you  and  your  very  par 
ticular  friend,  a  good  day,  madam.  [Exit. 

HARRIET.  I  think  our  troubles  increase  fast:  how  unlucky, 
that  this  dispute  should  happen  at  the  very  crisis  of  your  arrival; 
— an  event  which  we  fondly  expected  would  be  attended  with  the 
most  pleasing  circumstances. 

LOVEYET.  Those  fond  expectations,  my  lovely  partner  in  trou 
ble,  shall  soon  be  realized; — this  is  only  the  momentary  caprice 
of  old  age. 

HARRIET.   You  must  take  care  not  to  talk  of  age,  before  him. 

LOVEYET.  Yes,  my  fair  monitor;  I  shall  think  of  that:  and 
now  permit  me,  in  my  turn,  to  give  you  a  little  advice. — In  the 
first  place,  I  would  have  you  go  to  your  father — fall  at  his  feet — 
clasp  your  fair  hands,  thus — beseeching  him  in  such  terms  as  that 
gentle  heart  is  so  well  form'd  to  dictate,  and  persuading  him  with 
the  all-prevailing  music  of  that  tuneful  voice,  to  recall  his 
rigourous  intention,  nor  doom  such  angelic  goodness  and  beauty 
to  despair,  by  persisting  to  oppose  an  alliance  which  alone  can 
make  you  blest;  and  without  which,  the  most  faithful  of  lovers 
will  be  rendered  the  most  wretched  one  on  earth.  I  shall  take  a 
similar  method  with  my  old  gentleman,  and  1  think  I  can  insure 
myself  success. 

HARRIET.  This  is  all  very  fine;  but — to  have  the  voluntary 
consent  of  the  parent  one  loves, — how  infinitely  more  agreeable ! 
I  would  not  offend  mine,  for  the  world ;  and  yet — 

LOVEYET.  And  yet  you  will  be  obliged  to  offend  him,  by  hav 
ing  me,  eigh? 

HARRIET.  Pshaw; — how  strangely  you  misconstrue  my  mean 
ing:  I  was  going  to  observe,  that  I  expect  his  obstinacy  and  pride 
will  prove  invincible,  in  spite  of  all  the  rhetoric  you  are  pleased  to 
ascribe  to  me. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  397 

LOVEYET.  Then  we  will  employ  a  little  rhetoric,  against  which 
another  class  of  fathers  are  not  quite  so  invincible.  —  Parsons  are 
plenty,  you  know;  and  Gold  and  Silver  are  persuasive  little 
words.  Love  inspires  me  with  the  spirit  of  prophecy,  and  tells  me 
I  shall  soon  with  propriety  call  the  loveliest  of  her  sex,  mine. 

HARRIET.  You  are  very  eloquent,  Mr.  Loveyet:  I  do  not  think 
the  subject  merits  so  many  florid  speeches. 

LOVEYET.   Not  merit  them  !  — 


'Tis  not  in  human  language,  to  define 
Merit  so  rare,  and  beauty  —  so  divine! 
Then  what  avails  this  little  praise  of  mine? 
HARRIET.  Harriet  deserves  not  praise  so  great  as  thine. 

[Exeunt. 
End  of  the  Third  Act. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.  TRUEMAN'S  House. 

TRUEMAN  [solus]. 

I  sincerely  lament  this  unfortunate  dispute. — I  know  Harriet 
loves  that  young  fellow,  though  he  has  been  so  long  absent; 
and,  therefore,  I  regret  it;  for,  to  what  end  do  I  live  but  to  see 
her  happy! — But  I  will  not  give  way  to  his  father; — perhaps 
he  may  think  better  of  the  matter,  for  I  know  him  to  be  of  a 
placable  nature,  though  passionate; — and  yet  he  seems  to  be  in 
flexible  in  his  resolution. 

Enter  HUMPHRY. 

HUMPHRY.  Sarvint,  Mr.  Schoolmaster; — here's  a  challenge 
for  you.  [Gives  TRUEMAN  the  barber's  note. 

TRUEMAN.  A  challenge!  Surely  the  old  blockhead  would  not 
make  himself  so  ridiculous. 

HUMPHRY.  Yes,  it's  for  that; — I  remember  he  said  you  call'd 
him  a  blockhead. 

TRUEMAN.  You  may  go  and  tell  him  I  advise  him  to  relinquish 
his  knight-errant  project,  or  I  will  expose  his  absurdity  by  taking 
the  advantage  which  the  law  offers  in  such  cases. 

HUMPHRY.  That  is,  you'll  take  the  law  of  him,  if  he  goes  for  to 
fight  you. 


398  Representative  Plays 

TRUEMAN.  Fight  me! — Oh,  grovelling  idea!  Wit-forsaken 
progeny  of  a  more  than  soporific  pericranium !  Fight  me ! — Hear 
and  be  astonished,  O  Cicero,  Demosthenes,  Socrates,  Plato, 
Seneca,  Aristotle, — 

HUMPHRY.   Oh,  for  shame! — Do  you  read  Haristotle? 

TRUEMAN.  Be  it  known  to  thee,  thou  monstrous  mass  of  ig 
norance,  if  such  an  uninformed  clod,  dull  and  heavy  as  that  ele 
ment  to  which  it  must  trace  its  origin,  can  comprehend  these  very 
obvious  and  palpable  truths,  expressed  in  the  most  plain,  simple, 
easy,  unscholastic  diction. — I  repeat  again,  that  you  may  appre 
hend  me  with  the  greater  perspicuity  and  facility, — be  it  known 
to  thee,  that  those  immaculate  sages  would  have  died  rather  than 
have  used  such  an  expression;  by  the  dignity  of  my  profession, 
they  would: — 'tis  true  that  the  ancients  had  such  things  as 
single  combats  among  the  Olympic  games,  and  they  were  always 
performed  by  the  populace;  but  such  a  fight,  alias  a  tilt,  a  tourna 
ment,  a  wrestle,  could  not,  according  to  the  rule  of  right,  and 
the  eternal  fitness  and  aptitude  of  things,  be  properly  denomi 
nated  a  bona  fide  fight;  for,  as  I  before  observed,  it  was  ipso  facto, 
a  game,  an  Olympic  game. — Olympic,  from  Olympus. 

HUMPHRY.  Pray  now,  Mr.  Schoolmaster,  if  a  body  mought  be 
so  bold,  what  do  you  think  of  the  last  war?  Does  your  School- 
mastership  think  how  that  was  a  fona  bide  fight? 

TRUEMAN.  You  are  immensely  illiterate;  but  I  will  reply  to 
your  interrogatory. — My  opinion  of  the  late  war,  is  as  follows,  to 
wit. — Imprimis.  The  Americans  were  wise,  brave  and  virtuous 
to  struggle  for  that  liberty,  independence  and  happiness,  which 
the  new  government  will  now  render  secure.  Item.  The  Ameri 
cans  were  prodigious  fortunate  to  obtain  the  said  liberty,  inde 
pendence  and  happiness.  A  war,  encounter,  combat,  or,  if  you 
please,  fight  like  this,  is  great  and  glorious;  it  will  immortalize 
the  name  of  the  renowned  WASHINGTON, — more  than  that  of 
Cincinnatus,  Achilles,  ^Eneas,  Alexander  the  Great,  Scipio,  Gus- 
tavus  Vasa,  Mark  Anthony,  Kouli  Khan,  Caesar  or  Pompey. 

HUMPHRY.    Caesar  and  Pompey!  Why  them  is  nigers'  names. 

TRUEMAN.   0  temporal  0  mores! 

HUMPHRY.  He  talks  Greek  like  a  Trojan. — Tempora  mores; 
— I  suppose  how  that's  as  much  as  to  say,  it  was  the  temper  of 
the  Moors,  that's  the  nigers,  for  to  be  call'd  Caesar  and  Pompey. 
— I  guess  how  he  can  give  me  the  exclamation  of  that  plaguy 
word. — Con — let  me  see  [Spells  it  in  the  manner  he  did  before.  ] — 


The  Politician  Out-witted  399 

Please  your  worshipful  reverence,  Mr.  Schoolmaster,  what's 
Latin  for  Constitution? 

TRUEMAN.  To  tell  you  what  is  Latin  for  Constitution,  will  not 
make  you  a  particle  the  wiser;  I  will,  therefore,  explain  it  in  the 
vernacular  tongue. — Constitution  then,  in  its  primary,  abstract, 
and  true  signification,  is  a  concatenation  or  coacervation  of  sim 
ple,  distinct  parts,  of  various  qualities  or  properties,  united,  com 
pounded,  or  constituted  in  such  a  manner,  as  to  form  or  compose 
a  system  or  body,  when  viewed  in  its  aggregate  or  general  nature. 
In  its  common,  or  generally  received,  acceptation,  it  implies  two 
things. — First,  the  nature,  habit,  disposition,  organization  or 
construction  of  the  natural,  corporeal,  or  animal  system. — Sec 
ondly,  a  political  system,  or  plan  of  government.  This  last  defi 
nition,  I  apprehend,  explains  the  Constitution  you  mean. 

HUMPHRY.  Like  enough,  but  I  don't  understand  a  single  word 
you've  been  a  talking  about. 

TRUEMAN.  No!  'Tis  not  my  fault  then: — If  plainness  of  lan 
guage,  clearness  of  description,  and  a  grammatical  arrangement 
of  words  will  not  suffice,  I  can  do  no  more. 

Enter  OLD  LOVEYET  listening. 

HUMPHRY.  I  mean  the  Constitution  that  you  read  in  the  news 
papers  about;  that  that  your  worship  was  a  going  to  get  at  log 
gerheads  with  old  Mr.  What's-his-name,  about. 

LOVEYET.    I'll  old  you,  you  rascal! 

TRUEMAN.  Did  you  never  hear  your  friends  in  the  country 
talk  of  the  new  Constitution? 

HUMPHRY.  Not  I,  I  never  heard  anybody  talk  about  it,  at  the 
Pharisee's  Head; — I  don't  believe  Jeremy  Stave,  the  dark  of  the 
meeting-house,  no,  nor  Parson  Thumpum  himself  ever  heard  of 
such  a  word — No,  not  even  old  Mr.  Scourge,  the  Schoolmaster. 

TRUEMAN.  A  hopeful  genius,  for  a  Schoolmaster,  upon  my  ed 
ucation.  Do  you  send  him  to  me, — I'll  qualify  him  for  that  im 
portant  station. 

HUMPHRY.  And  I'll  be  qualify 'd  I  never  larnt  such  a  word 
when  I  went  to  his  school. 

TRUEMAN.   Nor  any  other  one,  I  believe,  properly  speaking. 

HUMPHRY.  Oh  yes,  I'll  say  that  for  him; — he  us'd  to  take  a 
great  deal  of  pains  for  to  larn  us  proper  speaking. 

TRUEMAN.  The  Constitution  you  hear  so  much  noise  about,  is 
a  new  government,  which  some  great  and  good  men  have  lately 


400  Representative  Plays 

contrived,  and  now  recommend  for  the  welfare  and  happiness  of 
the  American  nation. 

LOVEYET.   Oh,  the  traitor! 

HUMPHRY.  But  didn't  old  Mr.  What's-his-name  say,  how  they 
wanted  for  to  make  slaves  of  us? 

LOVEYET.   There's  old  Mr.  What's-his-name,  again. 

TRUEMAN.  Mr.  Loveyet  is  a  weak  man; — you  must  not  mind 
what  he  says. 

LOVEYET.   Oh,  I  shall  burst! 

TRUEMAN.  Only  think  now  of  his  sending  me  a  challenge,  be 
cause  I  told  him  he  was  sixty  odd  years  of — 

LOVEYET.  [Running  towards  them.]  Death  and  the  devil! 
Have  I  sent  you  a  challenge? 

HUMPHRY.   No,  not  you,  old  gentleman. 

LOVEYET.  I'll  give  you  old  gentleman. — Take  that,  for  calling 
me  old  again.  [Offers  to  strike  him;  but  missing  his  blow,  he  falls 
down.}  Oh,  what  an  unlucky  dog  I  am!  My  evil  genius  is  cer 
tainly  let  loose  today. 

TRUEMAN.  Let  us  coolly  enquire  into  this  enigmatical  affair, 
Mr.  Loveyet.  [Breaks  open  the  note,  and  reads.  ]  What  is  all  this? 
—  Booby  —  blockhead  —  satisfaction  —  challenge  —  courage  — 
honour — gentleman — honour'd  per  Monsieur  Cubb. 

HUMPHRY.  Aye,  that's  I. 

TRUEMAN.  And  pray,  Mr.  Cubb,  who  gave  you  this  pretty 
epistle? 

HUMPHRY.   Why,  mounsieur,  the  barber. 

TRUEMAN.  By  the  dignity  of  my  profession,  it  must  be  so: — 
Now  there's  a  solution  to  the  enigma. — Mr.  Loveyet,  you  will 
excuse  my  mistaking  this  business  so  much ; — the  paltry  Frisieur 
never  enter'd  my  head ; — you  recollect  I  gave  him  a  little  flagella 
tion  this  morning. 

LOVEYET.  Yes,  and  I  recollect  the  occasion  too; — this  con 
founded  upstart  Constitution  (that  cause  of  all  my  crosses  and 
troubles)  is  at  the  bottom  of  every  mischief. 

TRUEMAN.  Yes,  your  wou'd-be  Constitution,  has  indeed  done 
a  deal  of  mischief. 

LOVEYET.    I  deny  it; — it  is  perfectly  inoffensive  and  mild. 

TRUEMAN.  Mild,  indeed: — happy  would  it  be  for  America,  if 
her  government  was  more  coercive  and  energetic! — I  suppose 
you  have  heard  that  Massachusetts  has  ratified  this  upstart 
Constitution; — this  is  the  sixth  grand  column  in  the  federal  edi- 


The  Politician  Out-witted  401 

fice;  we  only  want  three  more  to  make  up  the  lucky  nine;  and 
then  the  nine  Muses  will  make  our  western  world  their  permanent 
abode;  and  he  who  is  at  once  their  Favourite  and  Patron,  will 
preside  over  the  whole:  then  we  shall  see  another  Golden  Age; 
arts  will  then  flourish,  and  literature  be  properly  encouraged. 
That's  the  grand  desideratum  of  my  wishes. 

LOVEYET.  A  fig  for  your  Latin  and  your  literature! — That's 
the  way  your  unconstitutional  Constitutionalists  take  the  ad 
vantage  of  our  weak  side,  and — 

TRUEMAN.  And  the  said  weak  side  being  easily  discovered, 
as  you  have  but  one  side, — go  on,  sir. 

LOVEYET.  And  cram  their  unconstitutional  bolus  down  our 
throats,  with  Latin; — you  and  your  vile  junto  of  perfidious  poli 
ticians  want  to  Latin  us  out  of  our  liberties. 

HUMPHRY.  Well,  why  don't  they  take  the  law  of  the  polli- 
kitchens  then,  eigh? 

TRUEMAN.  Mr.  Loveyet,  I  never  knew  a  man  of  your  age  and 
wisdom — 

LOVEYET.  Age,  sir! — Wisdom! — Yes,  wisdom,  sir. — Age  again, 
eigh?  Ugh,  ugh. 

TRUEMAN.  Was  there  ever  such  preposterous  behaviour! — 
You  are  getting  as  crazy  as  your  favorite  Constitution. 

LOVEYET.  You  are  crazier  than  either,  you  old  blockhead,  or 
you  would  not  make  such  a  crazy  speech :  I  say  my  constitution 
is  a  thousand  per  cent,  better  than  yours.  Ugh,  ugh,  ugh. 

TRUEMAN.  A  pretty  figure  for  a  good  constitution!  What  a 
striking  instance  of  health,  youth,  and  beauty!  How  emble 
matically  grotesque !  The  very  image  of  deformity  and  infirmity ! 
A  perfect  mirror  for  Milton's  description  of  Sin  and  Death. 

Not  Yorick's  skull,  nor  Hamlet's  ghost, 
Nor  all  the  tragic,  stage-made  host; 
With  saucer  eyes,  and  looks  aghast, 
Would  make  me  run  away  so  fast: 
Not  all  who  Milton's  head  inspire, — 
"Gorgons  and  Hydras  and  Chim&ras  dire!" 
Nor  haggard  Death,  nor  snake-torn  Sin, 
Look  half  so  ugly,  old  and  thin; 
No — all  his  hell-born,  monstrous  crew, 
Are  not  so  dire  a  sight  as  youl 


402  Representative  Plays 

[While  TRUEMAN  is  saying  this,  LOVEYET  appears  to  be  in  a  vio 
lent  rage,  and  makes  several  attempts  to  interrupt  the  former, 
who  shuns  LOVEYET,  as  if  afraid.  ] 

LOVEYET.  Fire  and  murder! — Must  I  bear  to  be  held  up  for 
such  a  monster?  Perdition! — What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I 
say? — Oh!  oh!  oh! — Oh!  liberty!  Oh,  my  country!  Look  how 
he  ridicules  me ! — Did  ever  any  poor  man  suffer  so  much  for  the 
good  of  his  country! — But  I  won't  give  up  the  glorious  cause  yet; 
— sir, — Mr.  Trueman — I  insist  upon  it,  the  new  Constitution,  sir, 
— I  say,  that  the  old — the  new — that — that — 'Zounds  and  fury! 
—  [Running  towards  him,  and  making  an  attempt  to  strike  him. 
TRUEMAN.  My  dear  Mr.  Loveyet,  compose  yourself  a  little; 
— for  heaven's  sake,  sir,  consider; — your  animal  Constitution  is 
not  able  to  withstand  the  formidable  opposition  of  my  political 
one; — the  shock  is  too  great; — let  me  persuade  you,  sir;  and  as 
soon  as  nine  States  accede  to  the  adoption  of  the  new  Constitu 
tion,  we  will  investigate  the  merits  of  the  old.  Ha,  ha,  ha. 
[This  speech  and  the  preceding  one,  are  to  be  spoken  at  the  same 
time;  during  which,  TRUEMAN  and  LOVEYET  run  about  the 
stage,  and  HUMPHRY  retreats  from  them  as  they  approach  him.  ] 

Enter  HARRIET  alarmed. 

HARRIET.   Oh,  Papa, — my  dear  Papa,  what's  the  matter! 

LOVEYET.  And,  sir,  as  sure  as — as — eight  times  nine  is  sixty- 
three,  your  new  government  is  not  bottom,  not  sound ;  and — 

TRUEMAN.  And  as  sure  as  you  are  sixty- three,  your  head  is  not 
sound. 

LOVEYET.  Here  is  your  incomparable  daughter; — I  came  here 
to  acquaint  you  of  her  scandalous  conduct ;  but  now  she  can  save 
me  that  trouble. 

TRUEMAN.   How,  sir!    My  daughter's  scandalous  conduct? 

LOVEYET.  I  was  going  to  tell  you.  I  caught  her  with  a  strange 
gallant, — a  "very  particular  friend;"  whose  "love, — friendship, 
I  would  say,"  was  so  sincere,  that  she  was  kind  enough  to  grant 
him  a  little  "friendly  freedom,"  in  my  presence. 

TRUEMAN.  Heaven  protect  me!  There  certainly  must  be 
something  in  this.  [Aside. 

LOVEYET.   And  that  I  have  received  a  letter  from  my  son. 

HUMPHRY.   Aye,  now  he's  his  son  again.  [Aside. 

LOVEYET.  And  that  he  will  be  here  soon,  and  that  when  he 
conies,  I  am  going  to  marry  him  to  Miss  Maria  Airy. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  403 

HUMPHRY.    I  must  go  tell  Mr.  Lovit  of  that,  at  once. 

[Aside,  and  exit. 

LOVEYET.  And — but  it  is  no  matter  now: — I  suppose  she  will 
tell  you  a  fine  story  of  a  cock  and  a  bull. 

HARRIET.  I  shall  not  be  base  enough  to  deceive  a  father,  I 
give  you  my  honour,  sir. 

LOVEYET.  I  am  very  much  mistaken  if  you  have  not  given 
that  to  somebody  already: — A  woman's  honour  is  a  very  perishable 
commodity;  a  little  thing  often  spoils  it. 

HARRIET.  By  what  a  feeble  tenure  does  poor  woman  hold  her 
character  and  peace  of  mind! — It  is  true,  sir,  that  a  woman's 
reputation  is  too  frequently,  with  ruffian  cruelty,  blasted  in  the 
bud,  without  a  cause;  and  that  so  effectually,  that  it  seldom  or 
never  flourishes  again;  but  let  me  remind  you,  sir,  in  the  words 
of  the  poet,  that— 

"Honour's  a  sacred  tie,  the  law  of  kings; — 
It  ought  not  to  be  sported  with.'1 

LOVEYET.  I  say  it  ought  to  be  sported  with;  and,  by  my  body, 
'tis  capital  sport,  too; — eigh,  Horace? — [Sings.] — "Then  hoity 
toity,  whisky  frisky,  &c." 

TRUEMAN.  A  truce  to  your  insipid,  hard-labour'd  wit:  the 
honour  you  are  pleased  to  call  in  question,  is  not  an  empty  name 
which  can  be  purchased  with  gold;  it  is  too  inestimable  to  be 
counterpoised  by  that  imaginary  good;  otherwise  the  titles  of 
Honourable  and  Excellent  would  be  always  significant  of  his 
Honour's  or  his  Excellency's  intrinsic  worth; — a  thing  "devoutly 
to  be  wish'd,"  but  unfortunately  too  seldom  exemplified;  for, 
as  the  dramatic  muse  elegantly  says  of  money, — "Who  steals 
my  purse,  steals  trash." 

LOVEYET.  I  deny  it; — the  dramatic  muse,  as  you  call  him,  was 
a  fool : — trash  indeed !  Ha,  ha,  ha.  Money  trash !  Ready  Rhino 
trash!  Golden,  glittering,  jingling  money! — I'm  sure  he  cou'dn't 
mean  the  hard  stuff. 

TRUEMAN.  Very  sublime  conceptions,  upon  my  erudition; 
and  expressed  by  some  truly  elegant  epithets;  but  your  ideas, 
like  your  conscience,  are  of  the  fashionable,  elastic  kind; — self- 
interest  can  stretch  them  like  Indian-rubber. 

LOVEYET.  What  a  stupid  old  gudgeon! — Well,  you'll  believe 
what  I  tell  you,  sooner  or  later,  Mr.  Schoolmaster;  so  your  ser 
vant: — as  for  you,  Miss  Hypocrite,  I  wish  your  Honour  farewell, 
and  I  guess  you  may  do  the  same.  [Exit. 


404  Representative  Plays 

TRUEMAN.  These  insinuations,  Harriet,  have  put  my  anxiety 
to  the  rack. 

HARRIET.  I  am  happy  I  can  so  soon  relieve  you  from  it,  sir. 
Young  Mr.  Loveyet  arrived  this  morning;  but,  it  seems,  the  old 
gentleman  has  entirely  forgot  him,  during  his  long  absence;  and 
when  he  heard  his  father's  resolution,  in  consequence  of  the  dis 
pute  he  had  with  you,  he  did  not  think  proper  to  make  himself 
known.  It  was  this  which  made  him  think  me  so  culpable,  that 
you  hear  he  talks  of  marrying  him  to  my  friend  Maria. 

TRUEMAN.  I  see  into  the  mistake;  but  the  worst  construction 
the  affair  will  admit,  does  not  justify  his  using  you  so  indecently; 
and,  if  it  were  not  for  the  more  powerful  consideration  of  a 
daughter's  happiness,  I  would  make  him  repent  it. 

HARRIET.  I  have  ever  found  my  honoured,  my  only  parent 
both  wise  in  concerting  plans  for  that  daughter's  happiness,  and 
good  in  executing  them  to  the  utmost  of  his  ability;  and,  I  dare 
say,  he  does  not  think  her  alliance  with  Mr.  Loveyet's  son  will 
prove  unfavourable  to  her  happiness. 

TRUEMAN.  Far  from  it,  my  child: — Your  unusual  good  sense 
makes  a  common-place  lecture  unnecessary,  Harriet;  but  beware 
of  flattery  and  dissimulation ;  for  the  manners  of  the  present  age 
are  so  dissolute,  that  the  young  fellows  of  these  degenerate  days 
think  they  cannot  be  fine  gentlemen  without  being  rakes,  and — 
in  short,  rascals;  for  they  make  a  merit  even  of  debauching  inno 
cence: — indeed,  that  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at,  when  so  many 
of  those  who  are  called  ladies  of  taste  and  fashion,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  like  them  the  better  for  it; — but  I  hope,  you  and  Mr. 
Loveyet  are  exceptions  to  such  depravity. 

HARRIET.  I  think  I  can  venture  to  assure  you,  we  are,  sir; — 
and  now,  if  my  father  has  nothing  more  to  impart,  I  will  take  my 
leave  of  him;  and  be  assured,  sir,  your  advice  shall  be  treasured 
here,  as  a  sacred  pledge  of  paternal  love. — Adieu,  Papa. 

TRUEMAN.  Farewell,  Harriet; — Heaven  prosper  your  designs. 

[Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II.  A  Street. 

Enter  HUMPHRY  and  WORTHNOUGHT  meeting. 
WORTHNOUGHT.   Sir,  your  most  obedient. 
HUMPHRY.   Here's  that  mackmarony  again.  [Aside. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  I  have  not  the  honour  to  know  your  name,  sir, 
but  if  you  will  inform  me  what  you  were  whispering  with  Mr. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  405 

Loveyet  about,  you  will  make  me  the  most  obsequious  and  de 
voted  of  your  slaves. 

HUMPHRY.  My  slave! — Why,  I  wou'dn't  have  you  for  a  slave, 
if  you  was  to  pay  me  for  it; — with  your  silk  sattin  breeches,  and 
your  lily  white  gloves,  and  your  crimp'd  up  toes,  and  your  fine 
powder'd  calabash,  that's  so  smart  outside. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  You  entirely  mistake  my  meaning,  friend; — 
I'm  a  man  of  quality. — Do  I  look  like  a  servant,  a  hireling,  a  vile 
menial? 

HUMPHRY.  No,  you  look  more  like  a  dancing-master,  a  fight 
ing-master,  or  a  play-actor,  or  some  such  flashy  folks;  but  looks 
is  nothing,  for  everybody  dresses  alike  nowadays;  like  master, 
like  man,  as  the  old  saying  is;  ecod,  you  can't  tell  a  Congressman 
from  a  marchant's  'prentice,  everybody  dresses  so  fine. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Ha,  ha,  ha, — he  is  pasitively  a  very  eccentric 
bady,  and  there  is  a  small  tincture  of  a  barbarous  sart  of  wit  in 
what  he  says;  but  it  wants  an  immensity  of  correction,  an  infini 
tude  of  polishing;  he  is  a  mere  son  of  nature,  everything  he  says 
is  express'd  in  such  a  Gathic,  uncouth, Anti-Chesterfieldian  style; 
and  as  for  his  dress,  it  is  pasitively  most  prepasterously  clownish 
and  original. 

HUMPHRY.  Why  he  talks  as  many  long-winded,  old-fashioned 
words,  as  the  Schoolmaster. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Mr. — Mr. — Pray  what  is  your  proper  name, 
besides  Humphry?  Your  sirname,  I  mean. 

HUMPHRY.  My  proper  sirname  is  Humphry  Cubb;  why  our 
family  is  the  most  largest  family  within  the  circumroundibus  of 
fifty  miles,  and  the  most  grandest  too,  tho'  I  say  it  that  shou'dn't 
say  it;  for  my  father's  father's  great-grandfather  was  a  just-ass 
of  the  peace,  when  King  George  the  third  was  a  sucking  baby, 
and,  therefore,  as  father  says,  a  greater  man  then,  than  he  was, 
ha,  ha,  ha.  And  his  great  aunt,  by  his  mother's  side,  had  the 
honour  to  be  chief  waiting  woman  to  Mynheer  Van  Hardspraken- 
crampdejawmetlongname,  the  Dutch  governor's  public  scratche- 
tary;  but  I  needn't  go  so  far  back  neither,  for  I've  got,  at  this 
present  time,  no  less  than  two  second  cousins;  one  of  'em  is 
soup-provider  for  the  county,  and  t'  other  belongs  to  the  liglisla- 
ture,  and  both  belonging  to  our  family  too; — both  Cubbs. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Yes,  the  world  abounds  with  Cubbs,  just 
such  unlick'd  ones  as  you  are; — there  is  a  profusion  of  them  in 


406  Representative  Plays 

this  city. — You  must  know,  /  am  Dick  Worthnought,  esquire; 
a  gentleman,  a  buck  of  the  blood,  and  a — you  understand  me. 

HUMPHRY.  Why,  your  family  must  be  as  big  as  mine,  then; 
for  I've  seen  hundreds  of  such  Worth-nothing  bloody  bucks  as 
you,  since  I've  been  in  town. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Your  criticisms  are  perfectly  barbarous  and 
disagreeable,  'foregad;  but, — will  you  let  me  know  what  you  and 
the  West-India  young  gentleman  were  whispering  about,  at  Miss 
Trueman's? 

HUMPHRY.  Yes. — You  can  have  Miss  Trueman  now,  if  you've 
a  mind. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Can  I?  Only  prove  your  words,  and  enroll 
me  your  everlasting,  your  indissoluble  friend,  demme. 

HUMPHRY.  Friend  me  none  of  your  friends;  I  don't  want  such 
everlasting  friends  as  you,  d'  ye  see,  becase  why,  if  you  never 
make  a  beginning  with  your  friendship,  I'm  sure  it  can't  be  ever 
lasting;  and  if  you've  got  a  mind  to  shew  your  friendliness,  I'm 
sure  you  cou'dn't  have  a  more  fitter  time  than  now. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  What  wou'd  the  addity  have  me  say,  I 
wonder. 

HUMPHRY.  I  wou'dn't  have  you  say  anything, — you  talk  too 
much  already,  for  the  matter  o'  that;  I  like  for  to  see  people  do 
things,  not  talk  'em. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  There  [Gives  him  money.  ] — is  that  what  you 
want? 

HUMPHRY.  Aye,  I  thought  you  understood  me  well  enough. — 
Your  friendship  wants  as  much  spurring  and  kicking  and  coaxing 
as  our  lazy  old  gelding  at  home; — I  wou'dn't  trust  such  a  friend 
as  far  as  I  cou'd  fling  a  cow  by  the  tail. 

WORTHNOUGHT.   Poh,  poh, — to  the  point,  to  the  point. 

HUMPHRY.  Why,  then  you  must  know,  how  old  Mr.  Lovit  is  a 
going  for  to  marry  the  West- Indian  young  gentleman  to  young 
Mistress  Airy,  I  think  he  call'd  her;  and  so  you  can  go  try  Mis 
tress  Harriet  yourself,  for  I'm  sure  she  won't  have  him  now. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Why,  pray? 

HUMPHRY.  Why  if  she  gets  him,  she'll  get  a  bastard,  for  old 
Mr.  Lovit  isn't  his  father. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  No? 

HUMPHRY.  No; — and  then  he  and  the  Schoolmaster  kick'd 
up  a  proper  rumpus  about  a  challenge  I  fetch'd  him ;  and  that's 


The  Politician  Out-witted  407 

all  the  news  you'll  get  for  your  money. — A  poor  shilling  that 
won't  buy  ale  to  my  oysters  to-night.  [Exit. 

WORTHNOUGHT  [manet]. 

This  is  a  lucky  meeting,  'foregad; — I'll  go  immediately  and 
report,  that  young  Loveyet  has  of  late  seen  my  quondam  charmer 
carry  a  copy  of  him  in  miniature  about  her,  which  (strange  to 
tell)  is  continually  growing  nearer  to  the  life;  and  that  he  refuses 
to  have  her,  on  that  account. — "If  she  gets  him,  she  will  get  a 
bastard." — By  which  I  choose  to  understand, — matters  have  gone 
so  far,  that  she  cannot  save  herself  from  that  disgrace,  even  if  she 
marries  him. — Now,  in  order  that  this  tale  of  mine  may  transpire 
briskly,  I  must  first  see  some  of  my  tattling  female  friends; — they 
will  set  it  a  going  like  wild-fire. — Split  me,  but  it  is  an  excellent 
thought; — ha,  ha,  ha.  Poor  Loveyet  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.   HERALD'S  House. 

Enter  CANTWELL  and  HERALD. 

CANTWELL.  I  am  very  happy  to  find  you  home; — I  was  almost 
eat  up  with  the  vapours  before  I  saw  you.  [Sighs.] — Well,  what's 
the  news,  Miss  Herald? 

HERALD.  Nothing  strange,  Miss  Tabitha;  I  am  as  barren  of 
anything  new,  as  an  old  Almanack. 

CANTWELL.  Oh  shocking! — "as  barren  of  anything  new." — • 
What  an  odious  expression ! — The  most  vulgarest  comparison  in 
nature. 

HERALD.  Umph. — I  suppose,  if  Mr.  Gracely  was  here,  you 
would  not  be  so  much  in  the  dumps. 

CANTWELL.  Ah,  Miss  Herald! — If  you  felt  the  corruptions  of 
your  wicked  heart,  you  would  be  in  the  dumps  too,  as  you  call  it. 

[Sighs. 

HERALD.  I  believe  there  is  a  certain  corruption  in  your  heart, 
which  our  sex  are  apt  to  feel  very  sensibly,  and  that  is  the  want 
of  a  husband. 

CANTWELL.  The  want  of  a  husband! — I  vow,  you  are  mon 
strous  indelicate,  Miss  Herald;  I  am  afraid  you  are  wandering 
from  the  paths  of  vartue,  as  dear  good  Mr.  Gracely  says. 

HERALD.   There  comes  his  very  reverse, — Mr.  Worthnought. 

CANTWELL.  Ah,  he  is  a  profane  rake;  he  is  lighter  than  van 
ity,  as  Mr.  Gracely  says; — a  mere  painted  sepulchre. 


408  Representative  Plays 

HERALD.  That  ancient  sepulchre  of  yours  is  pretty  much 
daub'd,  I  think.  [Aside. 

Enter  WORTHNOUGHT. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Ladies,  J'ay  bien  de  la  joye  de  vous  voir.  I 
have  the  supernal  and  superlative  hanor  and  felicity,  of  being 
most  respectfully  yours. 

CANTWELL.  I  hope  I  have  the  pleasure  to  see  Mr.  Worth- 
nought  well. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Ld,  La,  Mademoiselle;  assez  bien:  Je  vous 
suis  oblige. — She  has  reviv'd  her  wither'd  chaps  with  rouge  in  a 
very  nasty  manner,  'pan  hanor.  [Aside.] — Have  you  heard  the 
news,  respecting  Miss  Harriet  Trueman,  ladies? 

CANTWELL.  Yes,  now  I  think  on  't,  there  is  a  report  about 
town,  that  old  Mr.  Loveyet  saw  her  and  another  rather  familiar 
together. 

WORTHNOUGHT.   Oh,  you  have  not  heard  half,  madam. 

CANTWELL.   Do,  let  us  hear,  Mr.  Worthnought. 

HERALD.  Aye,  do;  but  do  not  say  anything  that  will  hurt  Miss 
Tabitha's  delicacy;  for,  before  you  came  in,  I  was  complaining 
that  I  was  barren  of  anything  new,  and  she  was  almost  ready  to 
swoon  at  the  expression. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  If  Miss  Tabitha  has  such  an  antipathy  to 
barrenness,  she  will  not  be  offended  at  my  subject,  which  is  a 
very  prolific  one,  I  assure  you ;  for  Miss  Trueman  is  on  the  verge 
of  bearing  a  son. 

CANTWELL.  Oh,  horrid !  What  will  this  wicked  world  come  to 
at  last! — A  good-for-nothing,  wanton  hussy. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Very  true,  madam: — by  persons  of  easy  no 
tions  of  virtue,  indeed,  it  would  be  considered  a  trifling  faux  pas, 
as  the  French  call  it;  a  perfect  bagatelle;  or,  at  most,  a  superficial 
act  of  incontinency;  but  to  those  who  have  such  rigid  notions  of 
virtue  as  Miss  Cantwell,  for  example,  or  Miss  Herald,  or  their 
humble  servant;  it  appears  quite  another  thing,  quite  another 
thing,  ladies: — though  it  is  one  of  my  foibles; — I  own  it  is  a  fault 
to  be  so  intalerably  nice  about  the  affairs  of  women;  but  it  is  a 
laudable  imperfection,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  phrase; — it  is  err 
ing  on  the  safe  side,  for  women's  affairs  are  delicate  things  to 
meddle  with,  ladies. 

CANTWELL.  You  are  perfectly  in  the  right,  Mr.  Worthnought; 
but  one  can't  help  speaking  up  for  the  honour  of  one's  sex,  you 
know. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  409 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Very  true,  madam : — to  make  the  matter  still 
worse,  ladies,  Mr.  Loveyet  is  just  arrived  from  abroad  to  be 
married  to  her;  and  the  old  gentleman  is  going  to  ally  him  imme 
diately  to  Miss  Maria  Airy  in  consequence  of  it. 

HERALD.  I  am  glad  of  that,  however; — I  will  forgive  Miss 
Trueman  her  failing,  if  that  is  the  case,  for  then  I  shall  have  a 
better  chance  to  gain  Frankton.  [Aside. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  But  this  is  entre  nous,  ladies. — [Looks  at  his 
watch.]  Hah,— the  tete-a-tete!— Ladies,  I  have  the  hanor  to  be 
your  slave.  [Going. 

CANTWELL.  You  are  positively  the  greatest  lady's  man,  Mr. 
Worthnought, — 

WORTHNOUGHT.  I  am  proud  of  your  compliment,  madam ;  and 
I  wish  Miss  Tabitha  could  consider  me  such,  from  her  own  experi 
ence;  it  would  be  conferring  the  highest  hanor  on  her  slave,  'pan 
hanor. 

CANTWELL.   Oh,  sir, — your  politeness  quite  confuses  me. 

[Curtsying. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Miss  Herald,  your  thrice  devoted. — Made 
moiselle,  je  suis  votre  Serviteur  tres  humble. 

CANTWELL.  Mr.  Worthnought,  your  servant. — [Exit  WORTH- 
NOUGHT.] — Don't  you  think  he  is  a  very  pretty  fellow,  Miss 
Herald? — He's  the  very  pattern  of  true  politeness;  his  address  is 
so  winning  and  agreeable, — and  then,  he  talks  French,  with  the 
greatest  felicity  imaginable. 

HERALD.  I  cannot  say  I  see  many  perfections  in  him;  but  you 
talk'd  very  differently  just  now; — Mr.  Worthnought  then  was 
lighter  than  vanity;  and  now,  it  seems,  he  has  more  weight  with 
you,  than  good  Mr.  Gracely. 

CANTWELL.  You  are  only  mortify'd  that  Mr.  Worthnought 
took  so  little  notice  of  you,  ma'am;  you  see  he  prefers  me  to  you, 
though  you  value  yourself  so  much  upon  being  a  little  young, 
ma'am;  you  see  men  of  sense  don't  mind  a  few  years,  ma'am; 
so  your  servant,  ma'am.  [Exit. 

HERALD  [manet]. 

What  a  vain  old  fool!  Now  will  she  make  this  story  of  her 
swain  spread  like  a  contagion:  as  for  me,  I  must  circulate  it 
pretty  briskly  too;  perhaps,  it  may  make  me  succeed  better  with 
Frankton;  otherwise  the  poor  girl  might  lie  in  peaceably,  for  me. 

[Exit. 


4io  Representative  Plays 

SCENE  IV.  OLD  LOVEYET'S  House. 

OLD  LOVEYET  discovered  solus. 

Enter  CHARLES  LOVEYET. 

CHARLES.   Mr.  Loveyet,  your  most  obedient. 

LOVEYET.   Sir,  your  servant. 

CHARLES.   Don't  you  know  me,  sir? 

LOVEYET.   Yes,  I  think  I  have  seen  you  before. 

CHARLES.   You  really  have,  sir. 

LOVEYET.  Oh,  yes,  I  recollect  now; — you  are  the  person  who 
have  supplanted  my  son. 

CHARLES.    Indeed,  sir,  I  am  not  that  person. 

LOVEYET.  How! — Was  you  not  with  Harriet  Trueman,  this 
morning? 

CHARLES.  Yes,  sir;  but  I  have  no  intention  to  supplant  your 
son,  I  assure  you ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  the  supreme  wish  of  my 
heart,  that  his  love  may  be  rewarded  with  so  rich  a  treasure  as  the 
amiable  Harriet. 

LOVEYET.  He  shall  be  rewarded  with  a  much  richer  one,  if  he 
is  wise  enough  to  think  so. 

CHARLES.  If  it  be  wisdom  to  prefer  another  to  Harriet,  then 
may  I  ever  remain  a  fool!  [Aside. 

LOVEYET.    But  pray,  sir,  what  is  your  business  with  me? 

CHARLES.  My  business  is  first  to  know  if  you  have  any  objec 
tion  to  my  marrying  Miss  Trueman,  sir. 

LOVEYET.  What  a  paradoxical  fellow  this  is!  [Aside.] — Did 
not  you  this  minute  say,  you  did  not  intend  to  have  her? 

CHARLES.  I  did  not,  sir;  I  mean  to  have  her  if  possible,  and 
that  without  disappointing  your  son;  but  I  shall  explain  myself 
better,  by  telling  you  who  I  am.  Look  at  me  well,  sir — did  you 
never  see  such  a  face  before? 

LOVEYET.  I  hope  I  am  not  talking  to  a  lunatic!  [Aside.] — Yes, 
I  saw  you  this  morning. 

CHARLES.    Did  you  never  see  me  before  that,  sir? 

LOVEYET.  [Looks  at  him  steadfastly.]  Yes, — I'm  sure  I  have; 
and  I'm  very  much  mistaken,  if — yes,  that  reconciles  all  his 
strange  conduct; — it  must  be  so; — it  is  Charles  himself. 

CHARLES.    My  father!  [Embracing  him. 

LOVEYET.   And  are  you  indeed  my  son? 

CHARLES.  I  hope  I  am,  sir;  and  as  such,  I  thus  kneel  to  obtain 
forgiveness  for  deceiving  you  so.  [Kneels. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  411 

LOVEYET.  Rise  up  my  lad ; — by  my  body,  I  am  rejoic'd  to  see 
you; — you  did  take  your  father  in  a  little,  to  be  sure;  but  never 
mind  it; — I'll  take  you  in  another  way,  perhaps. 

CHARLES.  I  wish  you  would  take  me  in  the  matrimonial  way, 
sir; — that  would  be  a  most  agreeable  take  in. 

LOVEYET.  Well,  well,  we  shall  not  disagree  about  that: — I  am 
very  happy  this  affair  clears  up  Harriet's  conduct  so  well;  she  is 
a  fine  girl,  that's  certain;  and,  if  you  love  her  as  much  as  you  for 
merly  did,  why — I  don't  know  what  I  may  not  do. 

CHARLES.  Oh,  sir,  you  make  me  unspeakably  happy!  If 
my  Love  is  to  be  the  condition  of  the  welcome  Bond,  I  do  not  care 
if  it  is  executed  to-morrow;  for,  were  the  penalty  an  age  of  love, 
I  am  sure  I  could  pay  it. 

LOVEYET.  By  my  body,  I'll  have  a  wedding  soon,  and  a  merry 
one  too: — I'll  go  and  make  it  up  with  old  Trueman; — but  then  he 
must  not  talk  of  the  Constitution. — That's  true,  Charles,  what 
government  are  you  for,  eigh? — The  old  or  the  new? 

CHARLES.   Sir? 

LOVEYET.    I  say,  which  Constitution  do  you  like  best? 

CHARLES.  What  the  mischief  shall  I  say ! — Now  Love  befriend 
me.  [Aside.  ]  Since  you  seem  desirous  of  knowing  my  opinion  on 
this  subject,  sir;  I  must  candidly  tell  you,  I  am  decidedly  in  favour 
of  the  new  Constitution. 

LOVEYET.  Hah — the  new  Constitution! — A  good-for-nothing, 
corrupted,  aristocratic  profligate! — But  you  shall  not  have  her 
now;  that  is  as  fixed  as  fate. 

CHARLES.  Oh,  cruel  event!  How  soon  all  my  towering  hopes 
fall  prostrate  in  the  dust! — Do,  sir,  try  and  think  better  of  the 
matter; — I  will  promise  to  make  myself  think  or  do  anything  you 
please,  rather  than  have  the  double  misfortune  to  offend  my 
father,  and  lose  my  Harriet. 

LOVEYET.    Base  foe  to  the  liberties  of  his  country! 

CHARLES.  It  is  very  strange,  sir,  that  you  should  be  so  violent 
about  such  matters,  at  your  time  of  life. 

LOVEYET.  Hah!  do  you  dare? — Yes,  he  wants  to  provoke  me 
still  more; — to  talk  to  me  about  my  time  of  life!  Why,  I'm  not 
old  enough  for  your  father,  you  great  whelp  you: — Ungracious 
young  bastard, — to  have  the  assurance  to  ridicule  his  father! — 
Out  of  my  house,  you  'scape-grace ! 

CHARLES.  Unnatural  usage  for  so  trivial  an  offense! — But 
I  obey  you,  sir:  I'll  remain  no  longer  in  the  house  of  a  father,  who 


412  Representative  Plays 

is  so  destitute  of  a  father's  feelings;  and  since  I  see  you  value  my 
happiness  so  little,  sir,  I  shall  not  think  myself  undutiful,  if  I  take 
some  necessary  steps  to  promote  it  myself. 

LOVEYET.  Out  of  my  house,  I  say! — Promote  your  own  happi 
ness,  forsooth;  did  you  ever  know  any  one  to  be  happy  without 
money,  you  fool? — And  what  will  you  do,  if  I  don't  choose  to 
give  you  any,  eigh? 

CHARLES.  As  well  as  I  can : — I  have  a  few  of  your  unnecessary 
thousands  in  my  hands,  thank  fortune; — I'll  try  if  they  will  not 
befriend  me,  if  their  avaricious  owner,  and  my  unnatural  parent 
will  not.  [Aside,  and  exit. 

LOVEYET.    My  time  of  life,  indeed. — Provoking  profligate! — 

I'll  give  Miss  Airy  all  I'm  worth,  if  she'll  consent  to  have  him; — 

the  graceless  fellow  has  us'd  me  so  ill,  that  he  shall  be  punish'd 

for  it.  [Exit. 

End  of  the  Fourth  Act. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.  A  Street. 

Enter  YOUNG  LOVEYET,  HUMPHRY,  and  a  NEGRO  with  a  trunk 
on  his  head. 

LOVEYET.   Did  you  hear  him  say  so? 

HUMPHRY.  Yes;  he  said  how  he  was  intend  you  should  have 
Miss  Mary  Airy,  or  Airy  Mary,  or  some  such  a  name. 

LOVEYET.  Say  you  so,  father? — I  believe  I  shall  do  myself  the 
pleasure  to  baulk  you.  I  want  you  to  go  a  little  way  with  my 
man;  but  you  will  be  sure  to  make  no  mistake. 

HUMPHRY.  No,  no,  never  fear  me;  I  an't  so  apt  for  to  make 
blunders  as  you. 

LOVEYET.  [Looking  at  his  watch.  ]  'Sdeath !  I  should  have  been 
with  her  half  an  hour  ago. — I  know  I  can  depend  on  you.  Here, 
Cuffy,  go  with  this  gentleman. 

HUMPHRY.  Why,  HI  am  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Cuffy  needn't  give 
himself  the  trouble; — I  can  carry  it  myself. 

CUFFY.  Tankee,  massa  buckaraw;  you  gi  me  lilly  lif,  me  bery 
glad; — disa  ting  damma  heby.  [Puts  down  the  trunk.] — An  de 
debelis  crooka  tone  in  a  treet  more  worsa  naw  pricka  pear  for 
poor  son  a  bitch  foot;  an  de  cole  pinch  um  so  too! — 


The  Politician  Out-witted  413 

LOVEYET.  No,  no,  you  shall  carry  it; — your  head  is  harder 
than  his. 

HUMPHRY.   To  be  sure,  my  head  is  a  little  soft. 

LOVEYET.  You  must  let  him  take  it  to  number  two  hundred 
and  twenty-one,  Broadway; — will  you  remember  the  direction? 

HUMPHRY.  Yes,  number  two  hundred  and  twenty-one,  Broad 
way. 

LOVEYET.  Right; — and  enquire  for  Mr.  Frankton,  and  tell 
him  who  it  is  from. 

HUMPHRY.  Aye,  aye,  let  me  alone  for  that.  [Exit,  with  NEGRO. 

LOVEYET  [manet]. 

I  think  I  am  even  with  the  old  gentleman  now; — but  I  lament 
the  necessity  of  this  conduct;  and,  if  a  man  could  eat  and  digest 
matrimony,  without  a  little  matter  of  money,  I  would  forgive 
my  unreasonable  father,  with  all  my  heart;  and  he  might  eat  his 
gold  himself;  though,  by  the  bye,  this  sum  of  money,  in  equity 
and  good  conscience,  is  mine. — Now  he  wants  to  cross  my  incli 
nation,  by  making  me  the  rival  of  my  friend ; — what  a  strange 
whim!  But  if  I  don't  trick  him  out  of  his  project  and  his  money 
too,  it  shall  not  be  my  fault.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.  MR.  FRIENDLY'S  House. 

HARRIET  [solus]. 

Notwithstanding  the  arrival  of  Charles,  and  the  happy 
result  of  the  interview  with  my  father,  my  mind  is  not  at 
ease; — these  strange  rumours  must  have  some  foundation; — one 
says  he  is  married  to  Maria;  another  says,  he  is  discovered  to  be 
illegitimate;  a  third  reports,  he  was  found  in  company  with  a 
woman  of  ill  fame ;  and  to  conclude  the  catalogue  of  evil  tidings, 
a  fourth  says,  that  old  Mr.  Loveyet  is  going  to  disinherit  him,  in 
consequence  of  his  having  made  him  a  grandfather,  since  his  ar 
rival. — But  here  he  comes. 

Enter  YOUNG  LOVEYET. 

LOVEYET.  She  seems  very  thoughtful; — perhaps,  she  too  has 
been  unfortunate  in  her  suit  to  her  father; — or,  what  is  far  worse, 
perhaps, — but  I  will  not  cherish  such  gloomy  apprehensions. — 
Your  servant,  madam. 

HARRIET.  Good  day,  Mr.  Loveyet. — "Your  servant,  madam !" 
— What  a  stoical  salutation!  I  fear  there  is  too  much  truth  in 
what  I  have  heard.  [Aside. 


414  Representative  Plays 

LOVEYET.  You  seem  unusually  serious,  Miss  Harriet:  I 
hope  Mr.  Trueman  has  not  proved  relentless  as  you  expected. 

HARRIET.  No  sir;  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  acquaint  you,  my 
father  was  all  kindness  and  forgiveness. 

LOVEYET.  I  wish  I  could  say  so  of  mine; — he  indeed  was  kind 
and  forgiving  too  at  first;  but  no  sooner  had  I  begun  to  antici 
pate  approaching  happiness,  than  one  luckless  circumstance  de 
prived  me  of  all  that  love  and  hope  had  inspired. 

HARRIET.  An  unlucky  circumstance,  indeed;  but  would  the 
disappointment  really  be  so  great,  if  you  were  obliged  to  give  up 
the  thought  of  an  alliance  with  me? 

LOVEYET.  How,  Miss  Harriet!  Give  up  the  thought  of  hav 
ing  you! — By  heaven,  it  must  be  so! — Yes,  the  beau  would  never 
have  presumed  to  say  so  much  if  it  were  not  so; — and  Frankton's 
ambiguous  account  of  them  both,  confirms  the  suspicion; — and 
then  the  extravagant  encomiums  he  bestowed  on  her  yesterday. 
— Confusion!  my  fears  were  just,  though  he  ridicul'd  me  for  ex 
posing  them. — But  she  must  not  see  my  anxiety.  [Aside. 

HARRIET.  If  my  doubts  are  well  founded,  he  must  be  an  adept 
in  the  art  of  dissimulation.  I  will  try  him  a  little  farther. — 
[Aside.]  What  think  you,  Mr.  Loveyet,  of  our  New-York 
beauties?  Have  not  the  superior  charms  of  so  many  fine  women, 
been  able  to  overcome  such  old-fashioned  notions  as  constancy 
and  priority  of  affection? 

LOVEYET.  I  have  beheld  their  beauty  with  equal  pleasure  and 
astonishment;  and  the  understanding,  the  affability,  and  vivac 
ity,  by  which  strangers,  with  so  much  propriety,  characterize  my 
fair  countrywomen,  give  them  a  pre-eminence  over  the  ladies  of 
most  other  countries,  that  is  highly  gratifying  to  a  mind  already 
so  much  attached  to  its  native  city,  by  the  most  endearing  of  all 
human  ties; — they  are  all  that  the  warmest,  the  most  luxuriant 
fancy  can  wish;  beautiful — almost  beyond  the  possibility  of  an 
increase  of  charms;  and — I  had  almost  said,  they  furnish  room 
for  love  and  warm  conceptions,  "even  to  madness!" 

HARRIET.  I  am  in  doubt  no  longer; — such  passionate  expres 
sions  must  have  Love  for  their  prompter.  [Aside. 

LOVEYET.  My  friend  Frankton  extolled  them  highly;  but  his 
description  derogates  from  their  desert; — you,  too,  he  praised; — 
I  listened  to  him — with  unspeakable  delight,  and  believed  him 
with  all  the  ardour  of  faith  and  expectation ;  for  I  could  readily  be 
lieve  that,  which  I  had  so  often,  so  sweetly  experienced; — but 


The  Politician  Out-witted  415 

when  you  last  blest  my  eyes  with  that  enchanting  form,  how  was 
the  idea  exceeded  by  the  reality! — To  do  justice  to  such  perfec 
tion,  the  praises  I  this  minute  bestowed  on  the  ladies  I  have  seen, 
would  be  spiritless  and  insufficient! — To  charms  like  Miss  Har 
riet's,  what  hermit  could  remain  insensible! — /was  not  insensible; 
— the  tender  passion,  I  began  so  early  to  entertain;  a  passion, 
which  length  of  absence,  and  a  succession  of  objects  and  events, 
had  rendered  too  dormant,  was  then  excited  to  sensations  the 
most  exquisitely  sensible; — was  then  taught  to  glow  with  a 
flame,  too  fervent  to  be  now  suppressed! 

HARRIET.   Were  I  but  sure  of  his  sincerity!  [Aside. 

LOVEYET.  With  what  indifference  she  hears  me! — If  she  is 
so  insensible  to  the  genuine  effusions  of  a  heart  like  mine,  I  am 
lost  indeed !  But  I  will  try  a  little  deception  to  discover  the  truth. 
[Aside.]  — What  a  lovely  picture  Mr.  Frankton  drew  of  Miss 
Airy!  But  it  was  not  too  highly  finished;  for  a  thousand  Loves 
and  Graces  have  conspired,  to  make  her  the  most  accomplished 
of  her  sex. 

HARRIET.  My  pride  shall  not  let  him  triumph  over  my  cha 
grin.  [Aside.]  — I  know  Miss  Airy  to  be  as  accomplished  as  you 
represent  her,  sir:  and  Mr.  Frankton  gave  such  a  lovely  descrip 
tion  of  her,  you  say; — I  dare  say  he  did; — oh, — yes — yes  [Ap 
pears  disconcerted,  by  striving  to  hide  her  concern.  ] — he  loves  her  to 
distraction; — Mr.  Frankton  has  doubtless  made  a  wise  choice. 

LOVEYET.  By  all  that's  false,  she  is  concerned  at  Frankton's 
having  praised  his  mistress!  She  absolutely  loves  him!  [Aside. 

HARRIET.   And  you  have  seen  the  amiable  Miss  Airy,  sir. 

LOVEYET.  Forgive  me,  honour  and  veracity.  [Aside.]  — Yes, 
Miss  Trueman;  and  not  without  a  deep  sense  of  her  uncommon 
worth  and  beauty. 

HARRIET.  I  admire  your  discernment,  sir; — Mr.  Frankton, 
too,  is  a  very  nice  judge  of  female  merit;  and  he  cannot  evince  his 
judgment  better,  than  by  praising  my  friend  Maria. 

LOVEYET.  Pardon  me,  madam:  with  submission  to  your 
friend's  merit,  I  think  his  panegyric  would  better  apply  to  you. 

HARRIET.   That  compliment  is  too  great,  to  be  meant,  I  fancy. 

LOVEYET.  I  rather  think,  you  value  the  author  of  it  so  little, 
that  you  would  as  soon  he  should  withhold  it,  madam. 

HARRIET.  Certainly,  sir,  when  I  have  reason  to  think  there  is 
another  who  has  a  better  right  to  it,  and  for  whom  it  is  secretly 
intended. 


41 6  Representative  Plays 

LOVEYET.  You  wrong  me  much,  madam : — some  tattling  gossip 
or  designing  knave,  has  whispered  some  falsehood  to  my  preju 
dice; — probably  my  rival, — Mr.  Worthnought. 

HARRIET.  If  you  have  come  here  with  a  design  to  use  me  ill, 
sir,  I  beg  you  will  tell  me  so,  and  then  I  shall  act  accordingly. 

LOVEYET.  Your  actions  accord  very  illy  with  your  professions, 
I  think,  madam. 

HARRIET.  Your  duplicity,  sir,  both  in  word  and  action,  justi 
fies  my  retorting  that  ungenerous  accusation. 

LOVEYET.  I  entreat  you  to  believe  me,  Miss  Harriet,  when  I 
say,  I  am  unconscious  of  having  done  anything  I  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of,  since  my  arrival :  I  am  so  confident  of  this,  that  the 
circulation  of  a  malicious  rumour,  however  dishonourable  to  me, 
would  give  me  little  disquiet,  did  I  not  reflect,  that  it  is  the  object 
of  Harriet's  credulity; — a  reflection,  that  is  the  source  of  real  un- 
happiness  to  me: — be  kind  then,  Harriet,  and  tell  me  wherein  I 
am  guilty; — obscurity  in  a  matter  so  interesting,  gives  more  tor 
ture  to  the  mind,  than  the  most  unwelcome  truth. 

HARRIET.  He  must  be  sincere.  [Aside.]  — Your  request  shall 
be  comply'd  with,  sir. — The  principal  offence  you  are  charged 
with,  is  your  having  been  smitten  by  the  lady,  on  whom  you  have 
bestowed  such  liberal  commendation; — be  that  as  it  may,  I 
heard  Mr.  Loveyet  talk  of  such  a  match: — I  believe  it  will  re 
quire  a  more  able  advocate  than  yourself,  to  defend  this  cause. 

LOVEYET.  Suppose  I  assure  you,  on  the  sacred  honour  of  a  gen 
tleman,  that  what  you  have  heard  is  false; — suppose  I  add  the 
more  important  sanction  of  an  oath,  to  seal  the  truth. 

HARRIET.  I  will  save  you  that  trouble : — you  have  an  advocate 
here,  which  has  already  gained  your  cause. 

LOVEYET.  Oh,  Harriet,  you  are  too  good ! — Conscious  as  I  am 
of  the  rectitude  of  my  conduct,  as  it  respects  my  Harriet; — sure 
as  I  am  of  not  deserving  your  displeasure,  I  still  feel  myself  un 
worthy  of  such  matchless  goodness. 

HARRIET.  You  say  too  much;  and  compel  me  to  tell  you  that 
you  merit  my  highest  esteem. 

LOVEYET.  Esteem!  What  a  cold  epithet! — And  am  not  I 
entitled  to  something  more  than  esteem? 

HARRIET.  Excuse  the  poverty  of  the  expression;  and  be  as 
sured,  my  heart  dictated  a  more  exalted  word; — let  this  confes 
sion  atone  for  the  fault. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  417 

LOVEYET.  And  yet  I  would  fain  attract  your  esteem  too;  for, 
I  have  heard  connoisseurs  in  the  science  of  Love  say,  it  is  possible 
to  love  an  object,  and  that  to  distraction,  without  having  a  par 
ticle  of  esteem  for  it. 

HARRIET.  I  have  assured  you  that  my  esteem  is  at  least 
equalled  by  a  more  passionate  affection: — but  how  strangely  you 
talk! — First  you  acknowledge  yourself  unworthy  of  my  favour; — 
then  you  are  alarmed  that  I  should  only  esteem  you ;  and  when  I 
talk  of  a  passion,  superior  to  mere  Platonic  love,  you  are  afraid, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  is  a  blind,  enthusiastic  impulse,  not  founded 
on  esteem. — How  inconsistent  are  lovers! 

LOVEYET.  Your  reasoning,  like  your  person,  surprises,  charms 
and  subdues: — I  will  be  more  consistent; — but  our  contention  is 
only  for  pre-eminence  in  love ; — delightful  emulation !  Agreeable 
inconsistency! 

HARRIET.  I  am  now  ashamed  of  my  childish  suspicions;  but  I 
should  not  have  been  so  credulous,  had  it  not  been  for  an  affec 
tion,  which  rendered  my  better  judgment  blind  to  the  fallacy,  and 
made  me  more  apprehensive  of  your  inconstancy,  than  satisfied 
of  your  innocence;  and  this  disposed  me  to  misinterpret  every 
thing  you  said. 

LOVEYET.  And  your  apparent  indifference,  in  consequence 
of  that  misinterpretation,  excited  similar  suspicions  in  me;  and 
thus,  mutual  distrust  produced  mutual  misapprehension. 

HARRIET.  But  you  have  not  told  me  the  particulars  of  your 
interview  with  old  Mr.  Loveyet. 

LOVEYET.  Were  you  to  hear  those  particulars,  they  would  only 
afford  you  pain; — 'tis  sufficient  for  me  to  tell  you,  he  has  turned 
me  out  of  his  house,  only  because  I  told  him,  I  was  a  friend  to  the 
new  Constitution,  forsooth. 

HARRIET.  He  is  a  strange  character: — when  I  call'd  on  my 
father,  I  was  alarmed  to  find  them  at  high  words; — and  he 
abus'd  me  most  unmercifully. 

LOVEYET.  He  did?  Tis  well  for  him  he  has  call'd  himself  my 
father; — but  if  my  Harriet  consents,  I  will  immediately  put  my 
self  in  a  situation  that  will  justify  my  preventing  his  future  ill 
usage: — Fortune  has  enabled  me  to  act  independent  either  of  his 
frown  or  his  favour; — I  have  taken  such  measures,  in  consequence 
of  his  base  usage,  as  will  guard  us  against  the  effects  of  the  one, 
without  obliging  us  to  cringe  for  the  other. 


4i 8  Representative  Plays 

HARRIET.  I  am  happy  to  hear  it;  but  affluence  is  not  my  ob 
ject,  nor  poverty  my  dread ;  and  I  am  happy  I  can  convince  you 
how  little  I  desire  an  alliance  for  interest,  by  now  tendering  you 
the  whole  of  my  trifling  fortune,  in  case  your  father  should  de 
prive  you  of  yours. 

LOVEYET.  Charming  Harriet!  Miracle  of  disinterested  love! 
Thus  let  me  evince  my  gratitude.  [Kneels,  and  kisses  her  hand. 

HARRIET.  Pray  do  not  worship  me,  Mr.  Loveyet;  I  am  less 
generous  than  you  imagine; — self-love  is  at  the  bottom  of  this 
noble  declaration;  for  if  I  did  not  suppose  you  capable  of  making 
me  happier  than  any  other  man,  I  would  keep  both  my  fortune 
and  my  person,  to  myself. 

LOVEYET.  Better  and  better ! — Your  explanation  gives  me  new 
reason  to  adore  such  uncommon  worth,  and  makes  me  blest  be 
yond  measure!  By  heaven,  New- York  does  not  contain  such  a 
fortunate  fellow! 

Enter  FRANKTON. 

HARRIET.  [Seeing  FRANKTON.  ] — Ha,  ha.  You  could  not  say 
more,  if  you  were  addressing  my  friend  Maria. 

LOVEYET.   Talk  not  of  your  friend  Maria, — 

HARRIET.  You  talked  enough  of  her  perfections  just  now,  for 
both  of  us. 

FRANKTON.   He  did,  eigh?  [Aside. 

LOVEYET.  I  spoke  of  her  as  I  thought  she  deserv'd ;  she  is  a 
lovely  creature,  but — but  [Sees  FRANKTON.  ] — Frankton ! 

FRANKTON.  I  hope  Miss  Trueman  will  excuse  my  coming  in 
so  abruptly: — I  have  been  looking  for  Mr.  Loveyet,  all  over  the 
city;  at  last  I  concluded,  I  might  find  him  here. 

HARRIET.    Really  sir;  and  pray,  what  made  you  conclude  so? 

FRANKTON.  I  thought  it  was  within  the  compass  of  probabil 
ity,  madam. 

LOVEYET.  Perhaps  it  was  the  lady  you  wanted  to  see  so 
much,  Frankton; — that  she  might  be  here,  was  certainly  within 
the  compass  of  probability. 

FRANKTON.  Had  I  then  known  what  I  have  discovered  since, 
I  should  have  looked  for  you  at  some  place  not  very  distant  from 
the  lady,  whose  perfections  you  have  been  contemplating  with  so 
much  admiration;  for  by  Miss  Harriet's  account,  you  have  seen 
her,  perhaps,  more  than  once. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  419 

LOVEYET.  I  saw  her  yesterday,  and  was  charmed  with  her 
beauty. — Whenever  I  am  betrayed  into  one  falsehood,  I  am 
obliged  to  support  it  with  twenty  more.  [Aside. 

HARRIET.  It  is  really  so,  sir; — he  was  enraptured  with  her 
idea  just  now. — I  fear  your  friend  is  your  rival,  sir. 

LOVEYET.   And  I  fear  my  friend  is  my  rival,  madam. 

HARRIET.   Nay,  what  cause  have  you  for  such  a  fear? 

LOVEYET.  About  as  good  as  you  have,  my  dear. — I  am  glad 
you  came  in  when  you  did,  Frankton;  for  you  must  know,  we 
have  had  certain  mutual  doubts  and  jealousies;  in  consequence 
of  which,  a  little  ill-natured  altercation,  otherwise  called  love, 
ensued:  a  small  foretaste  of  conjugal  felicity;  but  the  short-liv'd 
storm  soon  subsided,  and  a  reconciliation  made  all  calm  again. 

FRANKTON.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  in  private,  Love- 
yet.  [A side  to  LOVEYET.]  — I  am  sorry  to  deprive  you  of  Mr. 
Loveyet's  company,  madam;  but  I  trust  you  willj  excuse  me, 
when  I  tell  you  I  have  particular  business  with  him. 

HARRIET.   By  all  means,  sir. 

FRANKTON.  Your  most  obedient,  madam. 

LOVEYET.  [Goes  up  to  HARRIET.] — Adieu; — expect  me  soon, 
and  be  assured  of  my  unalterable  fidelity.  [Exit  with  FRANKTON. 

HARRIET.  Farewell. — I  wish  he  had  look'd  for  you  a  little 
farther,  before  he  had  taken  you  away. — There  are  so  many  cap 
tivating  objects  in  the  city  (as  he  has  already  seen  and  declared), 
and  dissipation  abounds  so  much  among  us,  that  who  knows,  if 
he  is  now  sincere,  how  long  he  will  remain  so; — and  how  long 
after  marriage: — "Ah,  there's  the  rub." — Well,  matrimony  will 
put  his  constancy  to  the  test,  that's  one  comfort; — it  is  a  hazard 
ous  expedient,  but  it  is  a  certain  one. 

SCENE  III.  A  Street. 
Enter  FRANKTON  and  YOUNG  LOVEYET. 

LOVEYET.  He  denounces  perpetual  enmity  against  me; 
threatens  me  with  beggary,  and  (what  is  worse)  resolves  to  pre 
vent  my  union  with  Harriet,  and  thus  blast  all  my  hopes;  but 
I  shall  take  care  to  disappoint  his  views; — I  have  just  sent  the 
most  valuable  part  of  my  property  to — 

FRANKTON.  Hah!  There  goes  Miss  Airy,  I  believe: — pray  ex 
cuse  me,  Charles;  perhaps  she  has  observed  me.  You  have 
eased  my  mind  of  its  doubts,  and  your  resolution  has  made  your 
friend  happy. — Adieu.  [Exit  in  haste. 


420  Representative  Plays 

LOVEYET  [manet]. 

A  plague  take  your  hurry,  I  say: — In  the  very  moment  of 
my  telling  him  about  sending  the  money  to  his  house,  he 
must  conceit  he  saw  Miss  Airy; — but  he  has  not  received  it  yet, 
or  he  would  have  told  me. — I  hope  Humphry  has  made  no  mis 
take; — I  must  see  about  it  immediately.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.    The  Street  before  MARIA'S  House. 

Enter  HUMPHRY  and  NEGRO  with  a  trunk. 

HUMPHRY.  This  here  is  the  house,  I  warrant  you; — these 
crooked  figures  is  enough  for  to  puzzle  a  lawyer. — He  said  num 
ber  two  hundred  and  twenty-one: — two  two's  and  a  one  stands 
for  that,  and  there  it  is.  [Knocks, — Servant  comes  out.  ]  Does  one 
Mr.  Frankton  live  here,  pray? 

SERVANT.  No; — he  is  here  pretty  often  though,  and  I  expect 
he  will  live  here  altogether,  by  and  by. 

HUMPHRY.  Aye,  I  suppose  he's  only  a  lodger; — yes,  this  must 
be  the  place. 

SERVANT.  'Tis  not  the  place  you  want,  I  believe. — Mr.  Airy 
lives  here. 

HUMPHRY.  Mr.  Airy!  Aye,  aye,  now  I've  got  it. — Here,  Mr. 
What-d'ye-call'um,  will  you  please  to  tell  Miss  Mary,  somebody 
wants  for  to  speak  to  her.  [Exit  SERVANT.]  Now  I've  found  out 
the  mistake; — since  I  told  him  how  the  old  man  was  a  going  for 
to  marry  him  to  Miss  Mary,  he  thought  he  must  obey  the  old  fel 
low,  for  fear  he  shou'dn't  let  him  have  any  of  his  money,  and  she's 
got  a  swinging  fortune,  they  say;  so  he  sent  the  trunk  to  her. — 
But  what  shou'd  he  tell  me  to  take  it  to  Mr.  Frankton's  for? — 
Why  I  suppose  he  thought  I  should  find  him  here,  for  the  man 
says  he's  here  very  often: — and  then  the  number  on  the  door; 
why,  that  settles  the  matter  at  once, — there  can't  be  two  num 
bers  alike,  in  the  same  street,  sartainly: — Yes,  he's  made  one  of 
his  old  blunders. 

SERVANT  returns. 

SERVANT.   Please  to  walk  in,  sir. 

HUMPHRY.   Aye,  aye; — here,  master  Cuffy,  this  way. 

[They  go  in. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  421 

SCENE  V.  A  Room  in  MARIA'S  House. 
MARIA  and  OLD  LOVEYET  discovered  sitting. 

LOVEYET.  It  certainly  is  a  mistake,  madam;  I  have  sent 
nothing  out  of  my  house  to-day. 

MARIA.  He  said  it  was  from  Mr.  Loveyet,  sir. — I  confess  I 
could  not  conceive  what  could  induce  you  to  send  me  a  trunk  of 
money. 

LOVEYET.   Who  brought  it,  madam? 

MARIA.  A  clownish  kind  of  person,  sir, — a  countryman,  I 
believe. 

LOVEYET.  Ah,  now  I  begin  to  suspect  something. — What  a  sad 
rascal! — want  to  cheat  his  father!  But  this  lucky  mistake  will 
spoil  his  project.  [Aside. 

MARIA.  You  are  striving  to  unravel  the  mystery,  sir. — I  am 
afraid  the  man  has  made  some  serious  mistake. 

LOVEYET.  No  matter, — it  could  not  have  come  to  a  more 
suitable  place;  for,  now  it  is  here,  it  shall  be  yours,  if  you  will 
consent  to  a  proposal  I  have  to  make  to  you;  for  I  have  dis 
covered  it  to  be  my  property,  after  all. 

MARIA.  If  I  can  with  propriety  consent  to  anything  you  may 
propose,  I  will,  sir; — but  I  hope  you  do  not  think  either  your  or 
your  son's  money  will  tempt  me. 

LOVEYET.  No,  madam, — that  is  to  say,  I  dare  say  it  will  not 
tempt  you  to  do  anything  that  is  wrong; — but  money  is  a  tempt 
ing  thing  too, — though  not  quite  so  tempting  as  Miss  Maria. — 
Hem,  hem. — There  was  a  delicate  compliment  for  her!  [Aside. 

MARIA.  Mercy  on  me!  What  can  the  ugly  old  mortal  mean! 
It  cannot  be  possible  he  would  have  the  vanity  to  propose  his 
odious  self.  [Aside. 

LOVEYET.  You  must  know,  madam,  my  son  has  lately  arrived 
from  the  West-Indies — 

MARIA.  Really? — You  rejoice  me,  sir. — Happy,  happy  Har 
riet! 

LOVEYET.  Not  so  happy  as  you  imagine,  madam;  for  she  is 
not  to  have  my  son,  I  assure  you;  I  intend  a  lady  of  greater 
beauty  and  merit  for  him,  who  is  not  very  far  from  me  now, — 
provided  she  and  her  father  have  no  objection. — There  I  put  it 
home  to  her  [Aside.].  Ugh,  ugh. 

MARIA.  I  fear  there  is  something  in  this  rumour  about  Harriet. 

[Aside. 


422  Representative  Plays 

LOVEYET.  Come,  shall  it  be  so,  eigh? — Well,  silence  gives  con 
sent. — I  know  you  can't  have  any  particular  objection.  I  must 
have  you  for  a — Ugh,  ugh,  uh. 

MARIA.  I  must  humour  this  joke  a  little.  [Aside.  ]  — The  honour 
you  wish  to  confer  on  me,  is  so  great,  Mr.  Loveyet,  that  I  want 
words  to  express  a  suitable  acknowledgment; — but  what  will  the 
world  say,  when  a  gentleman  of  Mr.  Loveyet' s  sedateness  and 
experience  stoops  to  a  giddy  girl  like  me? 

LOVEYET.  By  my  body,  she  thinks  I  want  to  have  her  myself. 
— Why,  what  a  lucky  young  dog  I  am !  I  wish  old  Trueman  was 
here  now; — 'ods  my  heart,  and  my  life,  and  my — ugh,  ugh, — but 
I  must  talk  the  matter  over  coolly  with  her.  Hem,  hem.  [Aside.] 
— Oh,  you  dear  little  charming,  angelic  creature; — I  love  you  so 
much,  I  cou'd  find  in  my  heart  to — 'Zounds!  I  cou'd  eat  you  up. 
— By  my  body,  but  you  must  give  me  a  sweet  kiss.  [Offers  to 
kiss  her.]  'Sblood!  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer.  [Snatches  a  kiss.] — 
Ugh,  ugh. 

MARIA.  What  a  preposterous  old  dotard!  [Aside.]  — You 
will  excuse  me,  Mr.  Loveyet;  I  have  company  waiting  for  me. 

LOVEYET.  By  all  means,  my  blossom; — it  goes  to  my  very 
heart  to  part  with  you,  though; — but  go  to  your  company,  my 
love,  go,  go. — I  wou'dn't  disoblige  you,  nor  put  the  least  thing  in 
your  way,  for  the  seraglio — of  the  Grand  Seignior.  You  may  give 
up  the  trunk  to  my  son  now,  if  he  calls  for  it,  my  love.  [Exit 
MARIA.  J  Oh,  what  a  dear  creature !  Such  sweet  lips, — such  pant 
ing,  precious,  plump,  little — oh,  I  cou'd  jump  out  of  my  skin  at 
the  thoughts  of  it! — By  my  body,  I  must  have  her,  and  poor 
Charles  may  have  Harriet,  for  all. — A  fig  for  both  the  Constitu 
tions  now,  I  say;  I  wou'dn't  give  my  dear  little  Maria  for  a  score 
of  them.  [Exit. 

SCENE  VI.  A  Street. 

Enter  YOUNG  LOVEYET. 

I  wish  I  could  find  that  fellow; — I  cannot  think  he  has  been 
treacherous; — but  it  is  very  strange,  neither  he  nor  my  man  have 
returned  yet: — I  am  tired  of  seeking  Frankton  too; — since  he 
made  free  to  call  at  Harriet's  for  me,  I  think  I  will  go  to  Miss 
Airy's  for  him :  they  say  she  lives  near  by.  [Enter  HUMPHRY.  ] — 
Well,  sir,  what  have  you  done  with  the  trunk? 


The  Politician  Out-witted  423 

HUMPHRY.  Why,  what  you  told  me,  to  be  sure.  I've  been  a 
making  your  man  Cuffy  drunk,  with  some  of  the  money  you  give 
me;  but  he's  'most  sober  now. 

LOVEYET.    Did  you  see  Mr.  Frankton? 

HUMPHRY.  No;  but  I  carried  the  trunk  to  his  lodgings 
though:  I  was  just  a  going  to  Mr.  Airy's,  to  see  if  I  cou'dn't  find 
you  there. 

LOVEYET.   Mr.  Airy's? 

HUMPHRY.  Aye, — where  Mr.  Frankton  lodges;  number  two 
hundred  and  twenty-one; — there  it  is  before  your  eyes. 

LOVEYET.  That  is  number  one  hundred  and  twenty- two; — 
you  did  not  carry  it  there,  I  hope. 

HUMPHRY.   Yes  I  did. — Why  isn't  that  the  place? 

LOVEYET.  Confound  your  dull  brains! — Did  you  not  enquire 
who  liv'd  there? 

HUMPHRY.   Yes,  Mr.  Airy  lives  there. 

LOVEYET.  What  a  strange  circumstance! — You  are  sure  Mr. 
Airy  lives  there. 

HUMPHRY.  Sure  and  sartin; — why  I  see  the  young  lady 
you're  a  going  to  be  married  to,  and  I  give  her  the  trunk;  for  I 
think  the  sarvint  said  how  Mr.  Frankton  lodg'd  there. — I  hope 
there's  no  harm  done. 

LOVEYET.  I  hope  so  too; — I  must  step  in,  and  see;  but  this  is 
the  last  time  I  shall  send  you  with  a  message.  [Goes  in. 

HUMPHRY.  Like  enough,  for  I'm  a  going  home  in  the  country 
to-morrow.  [Exit. 

SCENE  VII.  TRUEMAN'S  House. 
Enter  TRUEMAN  [reading  a  letter]. 

This  is  very  unaccountable ; — Richard  Worthnought,  eigh : — 
I  wish,  Mr.  Worthnought,  you  had  been  at  my  school  a  while, 
before  you  scrawl'd  this  wretched  epistle: — but  the  subject  is  still 
more  unintelligible. 

Enter  WORTHNOUGHT. 

WORTHNOUGHT.    Mr.  Trueman,  I  am  yours. 

TRUEMAN.  I  deny  it. — Heaven  forbid,  such  a  thing  as  you 
should  be  either  mine  or  my  daughter's! 

WORTHNOUGHT.  I  should  not  gain  much  credit  by  the  alli 
ance,  I  believe. — You  have  received  my  letter,  sir,  I  presume. 


424  Representative  Plays 

TRUEMAN.  I  think  you  presume — rather  more  than  becomes 
you,  sir. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  I  find,  the  foolish  old  Put  don't  like  me. 
[Aside.]  — I  am  sorry  you  do  not  approve  of  my  offer;  but,  but — 
a — rat  me,  but  I  must  have  her,  for  all  that.  Ha,  ha,  ha; — 'fore- 
gad,  I  must,  old  gentleman. 

Enter  OLD  LOVEYET. 

LOVEYET.  But  I  say  you  shall  not  have  her,  sir; — there,  I 
suppose  you  will  have  the  impudence  to  call  me  old  gentleman 
next. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Demme,  sir;  what  have  you  to  do  with  his 
daughter? 

LOVEYET.  Nothing;  but  my  son  has  something  to  do  with 
her:  ha' n't  he,  friend  Horace? 

TRUEMAN.  Heyday!  what  does  all  this  mean? — Has  any 
State  rejected  the  new  Constitution? 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Come,  let's  have  no  palitics,  for  gad's  sake; — 
rat  the  canstitution ; — I  wou'dn't  give  une  Fille  dejoye,  for  all  the 
musty  canstitutions  in  Christendom. 

TRUEMAN.  By  the  dignity  of  my  profession,  you  never  read 
Publius  then ;  or  you  would  have  liked  one  constitution. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Publius!  ha,  ha,  ha. — I  read  Publius!  Not 
I,  sir,  I  assure  you: — an  outre  fellow, — a  dull,  mysterious,  me 
chanical  writer,  as  ever  I  refused  to  read,  split  me. 

LOVEYET.  So  he  is,  so  he  is,  sir:  by  my  body,  I  am  glad  to  find 
somebody  of  my  mind. 

[TRUEMAN  and  LOVEYET  retire  to  the  back  of  the  stage. 

Enter  FRANKTON  and  HUMPHRY. 

FRANKTON.  You  saw  him  go  into  Miss  Airy's  house,  this 
morning,  you  say. 

HUMPHRY.   Yes.  [Walks  thoughtlessly  about  the  stage. 

FRANKTON.  I  think,  this  is  a  tolerable  confirmation  of  the 
matter.  [Aside. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Hah, — Frankton; — 'foregad,  I  am  yours, 
superlatively. 

FRANKTON.  Are  you,  positively?  Hah, — she  is  here.  [Enter 
MARIA,  on  the  opposite  side.]  Your  humble  servant,  Miss  Airy. 

MARIA.  [Pretends  to  take  no  notice  of  FRANKTON.]  Mr.  True- 
man,  I  hope  I  have  the  pleasure  to  see  you  well. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  425 

TRUEMAN.    I  thank  you,  madam.     [Resumes  his  discourse  with 
LOVEYET,  who  does  not  yet  observe  MARIA.] 

MARIA.   I  hoped  to  have  found  Miss  Harriet  here,  sir. 

TRUEMAN.    Madam? —  [Turns  to  LOVEYET  again. 

LOVEYET.  Therefore,  sir,  as  I  was  telling  you,  I  am  determined 
to  have  her.  [To  TRUEMAN. 

TRUEMAN.  [Leaving  LOVEYET.]  How  is  this,  madam? — Mr. 
Loveyet  tells  me,  he  is  determined  to  have  you. 

FRANKTON.  Who!  How! — Have  who,  sir? 

[Loud  and  earnestly. 

LOVEYET.  [Seeing  MARIA.  ]  By  my  body,  there  she  is  herself. 
— Have  who,  sir? — Why,  have  this  lady,  sir;  who  do  you  think? 
— My  sweet  Miss  Airy,  I  have  the  transcendent  pleasure  to  kiss 
your  hand,  ugh,  ugh. 

MARIA.   Oh,  fie,  Mr.  Loveyet. — I  will  have  the  pleasure  to 
tease  Frankton,  now.     [Retires  with  OLD  LOVEYET,  whispering, 
and  looking  tenderly  at  him.  ] 

FRANKTON.  Amazement! — The  old  fellow!  [Aside. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  This  is  all  very  astanishing,  'foregad: — 
demme,  but  she  deserves  to  die  an  old  maid,  if  she  has  him. 

[Aside. 

MARIA.  [Pretends  to  observe  FRANKTON,  for  the  first  time.  ] — Mr. 
Frankton ! — I  did  not  observe  you  before :  I  give  you  joy  of  your 
friend's  arrival,  sir; — I  suppose  you  have  seen  him; — he  is  very 
agreeable. 

FRANKTON.  Then  I  need  not  ask  you,  if  you  have  seen  him, 
madam. 

MARIA.   He  was  at  my  house  not  two  hours  ago. 

FRANKTON.    Did  not  you  see  him  before  that,  madam? 

MARIA.    I  did  not,  sir. 

FRANKTON.    Detested  falsehood!  [Aside. 

MARIA.  The  old  gentleman  acquainted  me  of  his  arrival,  only 
a  few  minutes  before. 

LOVEYET.  Eigh,  how, — old  gentleman! — she  did  not  mean 
me,  I  hope.  [Aside. 

FRANKTON.   And  you  think  Mr.  Loveyet  is  so  agreeable  then. 

LOVEYET.  Aye,  that's  me; — by  my  body,  he  is  jealous  of  me. 
Ha,  ha;  poor  young  fool!  [Aside. 

FRANKTON.  He  thinks  very  highly  of  you,  I  assure  you, 
madam;  he  speaks  of  you  with  admiration. 


426  Representative  Plays 

MARIA.  And  what  of  that,  sir? — You  speak  as  if  you  thought 
him  my  only  admirer.  [Affectedly. 

FRANKTON.  Disgusting  vanity!  [Aside.]  — No,  madam, — the 
number  of  your  admirers  is  at  least  equal  to  that  of  your  acquain 
tance; — but  there  is  only  one,  who  sincerely  laves,  as  well  as  ad 
mires  you. 

LOVEYET.  Come,  come,  sir;  none  of  your  airs,  sir: — love  her 
indeed; — why — why,  she  don't  love  you. 

[Ogling  and  winking  at  her,  &c. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Ha,  ha,  gudgeons  all,  demme; — old  square 
toes  is  cursedly  bit;  I  see  that.  [Aside. 

MARIA.   Mr.  Loveyet,  I  return'd  the  trunk  to  your  son. 

HUMPHRY.   His  son. — Ha,  ha. 

LOVEYET.  Yes,  yes,  he  told  me  so  just  now: — the  poor  dog 
was  ready  to  jump  out  of  his  skin,  when  I  told  him  he  should 
have  Harriet. 

Enter  CANTWELL  and  HERALD. 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Oh,  the  devil! — Now  shall  I  be  blown  up,  like 
a  barrel  of  gun-powder.  [Aside. 

CANTWELL.  Servant,  gentlemen  and  ladies. — How  is  your 
daughter,  Mr.  Trueman?  I  hope  she  is  likely  to  do  well. 

TRUEMAN.  I  hope  she  is,  madam;  it  is  a  match  which  we  all 
approve. 

CANTWELL.   No,  no,  sir;   I  mean  concerning  her  late  affair. 

HERALD.  Why,  young  Loveyet  certainly  would  not  stoop  so 
low,  as  to  have  her  now. 

TRUEMAN.    'Zounds!  Why  not,  pray? 

LOVEYET.  What,  in  the  name  of  ill  luck,  can  they  mean! — 
I  hope,  I — oh,  there  they  come. 

Enter  HARRIET  and  CHARLES  LOVEYET. 

CANTWELL.  Oh,  dear,  here  they  are; — why  she  don't  look  as  if 
that  was  the  case.  [To  HERALD. 

TRUEMAN.  I  desire,  ladies,  to  know  what  you  mean,  by  these 
mysterious  whispers. 

CANTWELL.  La!  sir;  you  only  want  to  put  a  body  to  the 
blush;  but  if  you  want  an  explanation,  that  gentleman  [Point 
ing  to  WORTHNOUGHT.]  can  give  it  to  you. 

CHARLES.  The  villain!  [Aside.]  — I  fancy  /  could  explain  it  as 
well. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  427 

WORTHNOUGHT.   Hem,  hem, — now  comes  on  my  trial.    [Aside. 

CHARLES.    But  first, — your  blessing,  sir.    [Kneels  to  his  father. 

HARRIET.   And  yours,  sir.  [Kneels  to  TRUEMAN. 

LOVEYET.   What, — married  already! 

CHARLES.   This  ten  minutes,  sir.  [Rising. 

CANTWELL  1 

AND         >  Married! 

HERALD      J 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Then  my  ill-star'd  fortune  is  decided.  [Aside. 

TRUEMAN.  Upon  my  erudition,  you  have  been  too  precipitate, 
Harriet;  but  I  have  no  reason  to  think,  you  will  repent  it;  you, 
therefore,  have  my  sincerest  benediction.  [Raising  her. 

MARIA.   I  give  you  joy,  my  dear.  [To  HARRIET. 

FRANKTON.   Now  all  my  fears  have  vanished. 

[Aside,  and  goes  to  YOUNG  LOVEYET. 

LOVEYET.  By  my  body,  you  have  made  quick  work  of  it, 
Charles. 

CHARLES.   For  fear  of  the  worst,  I  have.  [Aside. 

LOVEYET.  But — but  are  you  in  favour  of  the  new  Constitution 
yet? 

CHARLES.  At  present  I  can  think  of  no  Constitution  but  that 
of  Love  and  Matrimony,  sir. 

LOVEYET.  And  I  shall  be  sorry  if  your  matrimonial  Constitu 
tion  does  not  prove  the  better  one  of  the  two. — Eigh,  Maria? 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Dick  Worthnought,  esquire,  thou  art  an  ass 
and  a  liar;  and,  what  is  worse  than  both, — as  poor  as  poverty. 
Oh,  Fortune,  thou  blind  disposer  of  human  events,  when  wilt 
thou  make  a  man  of  me?  [Going  angrily. 

CHARLES.  Stay  a  little,  if  you  please,  sir. — My  happiness  is 
too  great  at  present,  to  let  me  take  that  revenge,  which  the  base 
ness  of  your  conduct  deserves:  but  justice  bids  me  accuse  you  of 
having  wickedly,  and  without  cause,  endeavoured  to  injure  the 
reputation  of  this  lady,  whom  it  is  my  highest  boast  and  felicity 
now  to  call  my  wife;  my  making  her  such,  however,  at  the  very 
time  when  the  baneful  tongue  of  Slander  is  so  diligent  to  damn 
her  spotless  fame, — [Looking  significantly  at  CANTWELL  and 
HERALD.  ] — will  at  once  convince  the  public  of  her  innocence,  and 
the  cruelty  of  her  enemies.  With  her,  you  have  also  injured  her 
connexions;  but  I,  for  my  own  part,  am  fully  satisfied  with  those 
symptoms  of  shame  and  repentance,  which  you  now  evince. 


428  Representative  Plays 

TRUEMAN.  Upon  my  education,  I  did  not  think  him  suscep 
tible  of  either. — A  few  minutes  ago,  I  received  this  audacious 
epistle  from  him. 

"Sir,  I  have  the  honour  to — acquaint  you — that  I  have  an  in 
clination — to  marry  your  daughter, — notwithstanding — the  late 
scandalous — reports  that  are  transpiring  to  her  disadvantage,  and 
(what  is  still  worse)  the — comparative  meanness — of  her  fortune 
to  mine." — The  comparative  meanness  of  her  fortune  to  mine. 
HARRIET, 
MARIA, 


LOVEYET, 


Ha,  ha,  ha. 


CHARLES, 
FRANKTON, 

WORTHNOUGHT.  Never  was  put  so  much  to  my  trumps,  'fore- 
gad.  [Exit. 

HERALD.   Unmannerly  wretches!  [Scornfully,  and  exit. 

CANTWELL.   Oh,  the  wickedness  of  this  wicked  world ! 

[Exit  after  her. 

LOVEYET.  Why,  this  is  just  as  it  should  be  now;— I  think 
business  goes  on  finely. 

MARIA.   You  will  not  think  so,  much  longer.  [Aside. 

LOVEYET.  By  my  body,  I  am  as  merry  as  a  cricket; — an't  you, 
Maria?  For  my  part,  I  feel  so  well  pleased,  I  could  find  in  my 
heart  to — to  do  as  you  have  done; — [To  CHARLES.]  cou'dn't  you, 
my  love?  [To  MARIA. 

MARIA.   Yes,  sir. 

LOVEYET.  Oh,  you  dear  little  rogue!  With  whom,  eigh,  with 
whom? — Don't  be  bashful, — tell  them. — I  know  she  means  me. 

[Aside. 

MARIA.  I  beg  to  be  excused  from  telling  that,  sir;  but  I  will 
tell  you  who  it  is  I  would  not  have. 

LOVEYET.  Aye,  that's  him. — [Aside,  looking  at  FRANKTON.] 
— Well,  who  is  it  you  won't  have,  Maria,  who  is  it? 

MARIA.   You,  sir.  [Emphatically. 

LOVEYET.    Me,  eigh? — me — me,  Maria? 

CHARLES.    Preposterous  infatuation! 

LOVEYET.   D 'd,  wanton,  treacherous  jilt! 

[Walks  about  discomposed. 

MARIA.  You  have  jilted  yourself,  sir; — nothing  but  excess  of 
dotage  and  self-conceit  could  have  let  you  impose  on  yourself  in 
such  a  manner. 


The  Politician  Out-witted  429 

FRANKTON.  And  may  I  then  hope — 

MARIA.  Hope? — Oh,  yes,  sir; — you  have  my  permission  to 
hope  for  anything  you  please. 

CHARLES.  And  you,  madam,  the  disposition  to  gratify  his 
hopes,  I  fancy. 

LOVEYET.  I  fancy  you  lie,  sir;  and  you  sha'n't  have  Harriet, 
for  your  impertinence. 

CHARLES.  Excuse  me,  father; — it  is  not  in  your  power  to  pre 
vent  that; — the  happy  deed  is  already  executed. 

LOVEYET.  'Zounds!  that's  true! — and,  what  is  still  worse,  the 
other  deed  is  executed  too. — Fire  and  fury!  All  is  lost,  for  the 
sake  of  that  inveigling,  perfidious  young  Syren.  Ugh,  ugh,  ugh. 

TRUEMAN.  [Burlesquing  what  LOVEYET  has  said  in  a  former 
scene.]  "  'Sdeath,  sir!  I  tell  you  I  am  but  two  and  forty  years  old: 
she  sha'n't  be  more  than  thirty  odd,  sir;  and  she  shall  be  ten 
years  younger  than  I  am  too. — A  man  of  five  and  forty,  old,  for 
sooth!"  Ha,  ha,  ha. 

LOVEYET.  Perdition!  Is  this  what  I  have  come  to  at  last? — 
Despis'd, — betray'd, — laugh'd  at, — supplanted  by  a  puppy, — 
[Pointing  to  FRANKTON] — trick'd  out  of  my  money  by  a  grace 
less,  aristocratic  son, — I — I'll — I'll  go  hang  myself. 

[Exit  in  a  passion. 

HUMPHRY.  This  is,  for  all  the  world,  like  the  show  I  see  t'other 
night,  at  the  Play-house. 

CHARLES.  His  agitation  of  mind  distresses  me:  my  happiness 
is  not  complete,  while  it  is  enjoyed  at  the  expense  of  a  father's: 
— painful  reflection! — We  will  go  immediately,  Harriet,  and  en 
deavour  to  pacify  him. 

His  conduct  shall  instruct  the  hoary  Sage, 
That  youth  and  beauty  were  not  meant  for  age; 
His  rage,  resentment,  av'rice,  dotage,  pride, 
(Sad  view  of  human  nature's  frailest  side!} 
Shall  mend  us  all;— but  chiefly  I  shall  prove, 
That  all  his  Politics,  can  never  match  my  LOVE. 

The  End. 


THE  CONTRAST 
By 

ROYALL  TYLER 


ROYALL  TYLER 


ROYALL  TYLER 

(1757-1826) 

William  Dunlap  is  considered  the  father  of  the  American 
Theatre,  and  anyone  who  reads  his  history  of  the  American 
Theatre  will  see  how  firmly  founded  are  his  claims  to  this  title. 
But  the  first  American  play  to  be  written  by  a  native,  and  to  1 
gain  the  distinction  of  anything  like  a  "run"  is  "The  Contrast,"  l  ' 
by  Royall  Tyler.  Unfortunately  for  us,  the  three  hundred  page 
manuscript  of  Tyler's  "Life,"  which  is  in  possession  of  one  of 
his  descendants,  has  never  been  published.  Were  that  document 
available,  it  would  throw  much  valuable  light  on  the  social 
history  of  New  England.  For  Tyler  was  deep-dyed  in  New 
England  traditions,  and,  strange  to  say,  his  playwriting  began  as 
a  reaction  against  a  Puritanical  attitude  toward  the  theatre. 

When  Tyler  came  to  New  York  on  a  very  momentous  occasion, 
as  an  official  in  the  suppression  of  Shays's  Rebellion,  he  had  little 
thought  of  ever  putting  his  pen  to  paper  as  a  playwright,  although 
he  was  noted  from  earliest  days  as  a  man  of  literary  ambition,  his 
tongue  being  sharp  in  its  wit,  and  his  disposition  being  brilliant 
in  the  parlour.  It  was  while  in  what  was  even  then  considered 
to  be  the  very  gay  and  wicked  city  of  New  York,  that  Royall 
Tyler  went  to  the  theatre  for  the  first  time,  and,  on  that  auspi 
cious  occasion,  witnessed  Sheridan's  "The  School  for  Scandal." 
We  can  imagine  what  the  brilliancy  of  that  moment  must  have 
been  to  the  parched  New  England  soul  of  our  first  American 
dramatist. 

Two  days  afterwards,  inspiration  began  to  burn,  and  he  dashed 
off,  in  a  period  of  a  few  weeks,  the  comedy  called  "The  Contrast," 
not  so  great  a  "contrast,"  however,  that  the  literary  student 
would  fail  to  recognize  "The  School  for  Scandal"  as  its  chief 
inspiration. 

^he/Contrast./a/Comedyj/In  Five  Acts:/Written  By  a/Citizen  of  the  United 
States -,/Performed  with  Applause  at  the  Theatres  in  New-York./Philadelphia,  and 
Maryland  ;/and  published  (under  an  Assignment  of  the  Copy- Right)  by/Thomas 
Wigne\l./Primus  ego  in  pair iam/ A  onto — deduxi  vertice  Musas. /Virgil. /(Imitated.)/ 
First  on  our  shores  I  try  Thalia's  powers,/And  bid  the  laughing,  useful  Maid  be 
ours./Philadelphia:/From  the  Press  of  Prichard  &  Hall,  in  Market  Street:/ Between 
Second  and  Front  Streets./M.  DCC.  XC.  [See  Frontispiece.] 


434  Representative  Plays 

Our  young  dramatist,  whose  original  name,  William  Clark 
Tyler,  was  changed,  by  act  of  Court,  to  Royall,  was  born  in 
Boston  on  July  18,  1757,  near  the  historic  ground  of  Faneuil 
Hall.  His  father  was  one  of  the  King's  Councillors,  and  figured 
in  the  Stamp  Act  controversy.  From  him,  young  Tyler  inherited 
much  of  his  ability.  The  family  was  wealthy  and  influential. 
Naturally,  the  father  being  a  graduate  of  Harvard,  his  son  like 
wise  went  to  that  institution.  His  early  boyhood,  when  he  was 
at  the  grammar  school,  was  passed  amidst  the  tumult  of  the 
Stamp  Act,  and  the  quartering  of  troops  in  Boston.  When  he 
entered  Harvard  as  a  freshman,  on  July  15,  1772,  three  days 
before  he  was  fifteen  years  old,  he  was  thoroughly  accustomed 
to  the  strenuous  atmosphere  of  the  coming  Revolution. 

There  were  many  students  in  his  class,  who  afterwards  won 
distinction  as  chief  justices,  governors  and  United  States  sena 
tors,  but  at  that  time  none  of  them  were  so  sedate  as  to  ignore  the 
usual  pranks  of  the  college  boy.  Tyler's  temperament  is  well 
exhibited  by  the  fact  that  he  was  one  of  the  foremost  instigators 
in  a  fishing  party  from  his  room  window,  when  the  students 
hooked  the  wig  of  the  reverend  president  from  his  head  one 
morning  as  that  potentate  was  going  to  chapel. 

Tyler  graduated  with  a  B.A.  degree  from  Harvard  in  July, 
1776,  the  Valedictorian  of  his  class;  and  was  similarly  honoured 
with  a  B.A.  by  Yale  (1776).  Three  years  after,  he  received  an 
M.A.  from  Harvard  and,  in  later  life  (1811),  from  the  University 
of  Vermont.  He  read  law  for  three  years  with  the  Hon.  Francis 
Dana,  of  Cambridge,  and  the  Hon.  Benjamin  Hichbourne,  of 
Boston,  during  that  time  being  a  member  of  a  club  which  used  to 
meet  at  the  rooms  of  Colonel  John  Trumbull,  well  known  to  all 
students  as  a  soldier  and  painter.  Unfortunate  for  us  that  the 
life-size  canvas  of  Royall  Tyler,  painted  by  Trumbull,  was  de 
stroyed  by  fire.  We  are  assured  by  Trumbull,  in  his  "Reminis 
cences,"  that  during  those  long  evenings,  they  "regaled  them 
selves  with  a  cup  of  tea  instead  of  wine,  and  discussed  subjects 
of  literature,  politics  and  war."  In  1778,  Tyler  found  himself 
by  the  side  of  Trumbull,  fighting  against  the  British  and  serving 
a  short  while  under  General  Sullivan. 

In  1779,  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  there  followed  a  long 
succession  of  activities,  in  which  he  moved  from  place  to  place, 
finally  associating  himself  definitely  with  the  early  history  of 
Vermont,  and  Brattleboro  in  particular. 


The  Contrast  435 

There  is  much  interesting  data  in  existence  relating  to  Royall 
Tyler's  literary  activities,  as  a  writer  of  witty  articles,  sprightly 
verse  and  autobiographical  experiences — in  a  style  which,  while 
lacking  in  distinction,  is  none  the  less  a  measure  of  the  sprightli- 
ness  of  the  author's  disposition.  It  is  not  my  purpose  to  enter 
into  a  discussion  of  anything  but  Royall  Tyler  as  the  author  of 
"The  Contrast."  He  wrote  several  other  plays  besides,1  one 
dealing  with  the  wild-cat  land  speculation  in  Georgia.  But 
the  play  under  discussion  is  fully  representative  of  his  dramatic 
ability,  an  ability  which  would  scarcely  be  worthy  of  too  much 
commendation  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  Tyler  may  be  re 
garded  as  the  creator  of  the  Yankee  type  in  American  drama. 

In  1787,  Shays's  Rebellion  brought  Tyler  once  more  under  the 
command  of  Major-General  Benjamin  Lincoln,  with  whom  he 
had  served  in  the  Revolutionary  War.  As  an  aide,  he  was 
required  to  go  into  the  State  of  New  York,  and  arrange  for  the 
pursuit  and  capture  of  Shays.  It  was,  as  I  have  said,  while  on 
this  mission  in  New  York  City  that  he  went  to  the  theatre  for 
the  first  time.  He  witnessed  Sheridan's  "The  School  for  Scan 
dal,"  and  in  the  audience  on  the  occasion  there  very  probably 
sat  George  Washington.  The  latter  was  a  constant  frequenter 
of  the  little  John  Street  Theatre,  where  Wignell  was  the  chief 
comedian.  Apart  from  Jonathan's  description  of  this  "Colonial" 
Playhouse,  as  it  looked  after  the  Revolution,  we  have  Seilhamer's 
impression  (i,  212),  as  follows: 

"...  the  theatre  in  John  Street  .  .  .  for  a  quarter  of  a  cen 
tury  was  to  New  York  what  the  Southwark  Theatre  was  to  Phila 
delphia.  Both  houses  were  alike  in  appearance,  but  the  New  York 
Theatre  stood  back  about  sixty  feet  from  the  street,  with  a  covered 
way  of  rough  wooden  materials  from  the  sidewalk  to  the  doors.  It 
was  principally  of  wood  and  was  painted  red.  It  had  two  rows  of 
boxes,  and  a  pit  and  gallery,  the  capacity  of  the  house  when  full 
being  about  eight  hundred  dollars.  The  stage  was  sufficiently  large 
for  all  the  requirements  of  that  theatrical  era,  and  the  dressing- 
rooms  and  green  room  were  in  a  shed  adjacent  to  the  theatre." 

This  was,  it  seems,  the  first  time  Tyler  had  ever  left  New 
England.  His  manuscript  was  finished  in  three  weeks,  and 

1  For  example,  "The  Duelists,"  a  Farce  in  three  acts;  "The  Georgia  Spec;  or, 
Land  in  the  Moon"  (1797);  "The  Doctor  in  Spite  of  Himself,"  an  imitation  of 
Moliere;  and  "Baritaria;  or,  The  Governor  of  a  Day,"  being  adventures  of  Sancho 
Panza.  He  also  wrote  a  libretto,  "May-day  in  Town;  or,  New  York  in  an  Uproar." 
(See  Sonneck:  "Early  Opera  in  America.") 


436  Representative  Plays 

shortly  after  handed  over  to  the  American  Company  for  pro 
duction.  So  loath  was  he  to  have  his  name  connected  with  it, 
that,  when  he  gave  the  manuscript  to  Wignell,  he  consigned  also 
to  that  actor  the  copyright,  with  the  instruction  that,  when  the 
play  was  published,  on  the  title-page,  the  piece  should  be  credited 
to  the  authorship  of  "a  citizen  of  the  United  States."  Of  all  the 
productions  which  came  from  his  pen,  the  very  prosaic  and 
doubtfully  authoritative  Vermont  Law  Reports  is  the  only 
publication  bearing  his  name  on  the  title-page. 

"The  Contrast"  was  produced  on  April  16,  1787,  at  the  John 
Street  Theatre,  in  New  York,  by  the  American  Company,  the 
original  cast  including  Mr.  Henry  and  Mr.  Hallam  as  the  rival 
lovers,  and  Mr.  Wignell  in  the  part  of  Jonathan,  the  first  stage 
Yankee.  Anyone  who  has  read  the  play  will  quite  understand 
why  it  is  that  the  honours  so  easily  fell  to  Mr.  Wignell  rather  than 
to  Mr.  Henry  or  to  Mr.  Hallam,  and  it  is  no  surprise,  therefore, 
to  find,  after  the  initial  performance,  that  jealousy  began  to 
manifest  itself  between  these  three  gentlemen, — so  much  so, 
indeed,  that,  when  the  time  arrived  for  the  Company  to  go  to 
Philadelphia,  in  December,  1787,  Mr.  Wignell  was  unable  to 
present  "The  Contrast"  in  the  theatre,  and  had  to  content 
himself  with  a  reading,  because  it  was  "impracticable  at  this 
time  to  entertain  the  public  with  a  dramatic  representation." 
The  Notice  continued:  Mr.  Wignell,  "in  compliance  with  the 
wishes  of  many  respectable  citizens  of  Philadelphia,  proposes  to 
read  that  celebrated  performance  at  the  City  Tavern  on  Monday 
evening,  the  loth  inst.  The  curiosity  which  has  everywhere 
been  expressed  respecting  this  first  dramatic  production  of 
American  genius,  and  the  pleasure  which  it  has  already  afforded 
in  the  theatres  of  New  York  and  Maryland,  persuade  Mr.  Wignell 
that  his  excuses  on  this  occasion  will  be  acceptable  to  the  public 
and  that  even  in  so  imperfect  a  dress,  the  intrinsic  merit  of  the 
comedy  will  contribute  to  the  amusement  and  command  the 
approbation  of  the  audience."  Of  Wignell  and  his  associates, 
an  excellent  impression  may  be  had  from  a  first  hand  description 
by  W.  B.  Wood,  in  his  "Personal  Recollections." 

Whether  the  intrinsic  merits  of  the  play  would  contribute  to  the 
amusement  of  audiences  to-day  is  to  be  doubted,  although  it  is 
a  striking  dramatic  curio.  The  play  in  the  reading  is  scarcely 
exciting.  It  is  surprisingly  devoid  of  situation.  Its  chief  char 
acteristic  is  "talk,"  but  that  talk,  reflective  in  its  spirit  of  "The 


The  Contrast  437 

School  for  Scandal,"  is  interesting  to  the  social  student.  When 
the  ladies  discuss  the  manners  of  the  times  and  the  fashions  of 
the  day,  they  discuss  them  in  terms  of  the  Battery,  in  New  York, 
but  in  the  spirit  of  London.  The  only  native  product,  as  I  have 
said,  is  Jonathan,  and  his  surprise  over  the  play-house,  into 
which  he  is  inveigled,  measures  the  surprise  which  must  have 
overwhelmed  the  staid  New  England  conscience  of  Royall  Tyler, 
when  he  found  himself  actually  in  that  den  of  iniquity, — the 
theatre.  For  the  first  time  in  the  American  Drama,  we  get  New 
England  dialogue  and  some  attempt  at  American  characteriza 
tion.  Wignell,  being  himself  a  character  actor  of  much  ability, 
and  the  son  of  a  player  who  had  been  a  member  of  Garrick's 
Company  in  London,  it  is  small  wonder  that  he  should  have 
painted  the  stage  Yankee  in  an  agreeable  and  entertaining  and 
novel  manner. 

But,  undoubtedly,  the  only  interest  that  could  attach  itself  to 
this  comedy  for  the  theatre-going  audience  of  to-day  would  be  in 
its  presentment  according  to  the  customs  and  manners  of  the 
time.  In  fact,  one  would  be  very  much  entertained  were  it 
possible  to  make  Letitia  and  Charlotte  discuss  their  social  schemes 
and  ambitions  in  a  parlour  which  reflected  the  atmosphere  of 
New  York  in  1787.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  the  audience 
that  crowded  into  the  little  John  Street  Theatre,  on  the  opening 
night  of  "The  Contrast,"  was  treated  to  an  interior  room,  which 
was  more  closely  akin  to  a  London  drawing-room  than  to  a 
parlour  in  Manhattan.  According  to  the  very  badly  drawn 
frontispiece,  which  Wignell  used  in  the  printed  edition  of  the 
play,  and  which  William  Dunlap  executed,  we  see  a  very  poor 
imitation  of  the  customs,  costumes,  and  situations  which  Tyler 
intended  to  suggest. 

Indeed,  we  wonder  whether  Dunlap,  when  he  drew  this  picture, 
did  not  have  a  little  malice  in  his  heart;  for  there  is  no  doubt 
that  he  showed  jealousy  over  the  successof  "The  Contrast, "when, 
after  a  three  years'  stay  in  London,  under  the  tutelage  of 
Benjamin  West,  he  returned  to  America  to  find  "The  Contrast" 
the  talk  of  the  town.  Both  he  and  Seilhamer  who,  however 
prejudiced  they  may  be  in  some  of  their  judgments  and  in  some 
of  their  dates,  are  nevertheless  the  authorities  for  the  early  his 
tory  of  the  American  Theatre,  try  their  best  to  take  away  from 
the  credit  due  Tyler  as  an  American  dramatist.  They  both 
contend  that  "The  Contrast,"  though  it  was  repeated  several 


438  Representative  Plays 

times  in  succession — and  this  repetition  of  a  native  drama  before 
audiences  more  accustomed  to  the  English  product  must  have 
been  a  sign  of  its  acceptance, — was  scarcely  what  they  would 
consider  a  success.  As  evidence,  Seilhamer  claims  that,  just  as 
soon  as  Roy  all  Tyler  handed  over  the  copyright  of  his  play  to 
Wignell,  the  latter  advertised  the  printed  edition  whenever  the 
subscribers'  list  was  sufficiently  large  to  warrant  the  publication. 
It  was  not,  however,  until  several  years  after  this  advertisement, 
t  that  the  play  was  actually  published,  the  subscribers  being 
1  headed  by  the  name  of  President  George  Washington,  and  in- 
!  eluding  many  of  Washington's  first  cabinet,  four  signers  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  and  several  Revolutionary  soldiers. 
According  to  Seilhamer,  the  American  dramatists  of  those  days 
were  very  eager  to  follow  the  work  of  their  contemporary  crafts 
men,  and,  in  the  list  of  subscribers,  we  find  the  names  of  Dunlap, 
Peter  Markoe,  who  wrote  "The  Patriot  Chief"  (1783),  Samuel 
Low,  author  of  "The  Politician  Out-witted"  (1789),  and  Colonel 
David  Humphreys,  who  translated  from  the  French  "The  Widow 
of  Malabar;  or,  The  Tyranny  of  Custom"  (1790). 

We  are  told  by  some  authorities  that  Royall  Tyler  was  on 
friendly  terms  with  the  actors  of  this  period,  a  fact  accentuated 
all  the  more  because  his  brother,  Col.  John  S.  Tyler,  had  become 
manager  of  the  Boston  Theatre.  In  many  ways  he  was  a  great 
innovator,  if,  on  one  hand,  he  broke  through  the  New  England 
prejudices  against  the  theatre,  and  if,  on  the  other  hand,  during 
his  long  career  as  lawyer  and  as  judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
Vermont,  he  broke  through  the  traditional  manner  of  conducting 
trials,  as  is  evidenced  by  many  human,  amusing  anecdotes, 
illustrative  of  his  wit  and  quick  repartee.  He  was  married  to 
Mary  Palmer,  in  1794,  and  brought  up  a  family  of  eleven  children, 
a  number  of  whom  won  distinction  in  the  ministry,  but  none  of 
whom  followed  their  father's  taste  for  playwriting.  He  mingled 
•  with  the  most  intellectual  society  of  the  time,  being  on  intimate 
terms  with  the  Adams  family,  the  Quincys  and  Cranchs,  and 
identifying  himself  very  closely  with  the  literary  history  of  the 
country. 

In  a  record  of  New  England  periodicals,  his  name  will  figure 
constantly  as  contributing  editor.  We  have  letters  of  his, 
descriptive  of  his  home  life  in  Brattleboro,  Vermont,  filled  with 
a  kindly  benevolence  and  with  a  keen  sense  of  humour.  It  was 
there  that  he  died  on  August  16,  1826.  But,  all  told,  we  fear  that 


The  Contrast  439 

even  though  Royall  Tyler  has  the  distinction  of  being  one  of  the 
first  American  dramatists,  he  came  into  the  theatre  purely  by 
accident.  "The  Contrast"  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  a  very 
dramatic  representation. 

When,  in  June,  1912,  Brattleboro  celebrated  its  local  history 
with  a  pageant,  a  production  of  "The  Contrast"  was  rehearsed 
and  given  in  a  little  hall,  fitted  up  to  represent  the  old  John 
Street  Theatre.  A  scene  from  the  play  was  given  at  an  American 
Drama  Matinee,  produced  by  the  American  Drama  Committee 
of  the  Drama  League  of  America,  New  York  Centre,  on  January 
22  and  23,  1917, — the  conversation  between  Jonathan  and 
Jenny.  In  Philadelphia,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Drama  League 
Centre,  and  in  cooperation  with  the  University  of  Pennsylvania, 
the  play,  in  its  entirety,  was  presented  on  January  18,  1917,  by 
the  "Plays  and  Players"  organization.  A  revival  was  also  given 
in  Boston,  produced  in  the  old  manner,  "and  the  first  rows  of 
seats  were  reserved  for  those  of  the  audience  who  appeared  in  the 
costume  of  the  time." 

The  play  in  its  first  edition  is  rare,  but,  in  1887,  it  was  reprinted 
by  the  Dunlap  Society.  The  general  reader  is  given  an  oppor 
tunity  of  judging  how  far  Jonathan  is  the  typical  Yankee,  and 
how  far  Royall  Tyler  cut  the  pattern  which  later  was  followed 
by  other  playwrights  in  a  long  series  of  American  dramas,  in 
which  the  Yankee  was  the  chief  attraction.1 

1  The  song  which  occurs  in  the  play  under  the  title,  "Alknomook,"  had  great 
popularity  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Its  authorship  was  attributed  to  Philip 
Freneau,  in  whose  collected  poems  it  does  not  appear.  It  is  also  credited  to  a  Mrs. 
Hunter,  and  is  contained  in  her  volume  of  verse,  published  in  1806.  It  appears 
likewise  in  a  Dublin  play  of  1740,  "New  Spain;  or,  Love  in  Mexico."  See  also,  the 
American  Museum,  vol.  i,  page  77.  The  singing  of  "Yankee  Doodle"  is  likewise 
to  be  noted  (See  Sonneck's  interesting  essay  on  the  origin  of  "Yankee  Doodle," 
General  Bibliography),  not  the  first  time  it  appears  in  early  American  Drama,  as 
readers  of  Barton's  "Disappointment"  (1767)  will  recognize. 


AS  A  JUST  ACKNOWLEDGMENT  OP  THE  LIBERAL  EXERTIONS 

BY  WHICH  THE  STAGE  HAS  BEEN  RESCUED  FROM 

AN  IGNOMINIOUS  PROSCRIPTION, 

THE    CONTRAST, 


(BEING  THE  FIRST  ESSAY  OF  AMERICAN  GENIUS  IN  THE 
DRAMATIC  ART) 


IS  MOST  RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED 

TO 
THE  PRESIDENT  AND  MEMBERS  OF  THE 

Dramatic  Aflbciation, 

BY 

THEIR  MOST  OBLIGED 

AND 
MOST  GRATEFUL  SERVANT, 

THOMAS  WIG  NELL. 


PHI LADFLfHIA,? 

I  January,  1790.  $ 


DEDICATION  PAGE  IN  THE  FIRST  EDITION  OF  "THE  CONTRAST" 


ADVERTISEMENT 

The  Subscribers  (to  whom  the  Editor  thankfully  professes  his 
obligations)  may  reasonably  expect  an  apology  for  the  delay 
which  has  attended  the  appearance  of  "The  Contrast;"  but,  as 
the  true  cause  cannot  be  declared  without  leading  to  a  discussion, 
which  the  Editor  wishes  to  avoid,  he  hopes  that  the  care  and 
expence  which  have  been  bestowed  upon  this  work  will  be 
accepted,  without  further  scrutiny,  as  an  atonement  for  his 
seeming  negligence. 

In  justice  to  the  Author,  however,  it  may  be  proper  to  observe 
that  this  Comedy  has  many  claims  to  the  public  indulgence, 
independent  of  its  intrinsic  merits:  It  is  the  first  essay  of  Ameri 
can  genius  in  a  difficult  species  of  composition;  it  was  written 
by  one  who  never  critically  studied  the  rules  of  the  drama,  and, 
indeed,  had  seen  but  few  of  the  exhibitions  of  the  stage;  it  was 
undertaken  and  finished  in  the  course  of  three  weeks;  and  the 
profits  of  one  night's  performance  were  appropriated  to  the 
benefit  of  the  sufferers  by  the  fire  at  Boston. 

These  considerations  will,  therefore,  it  is  hoped,  supply  in  the 
closet  the  advantages  that  are  derived  from  representation,  and 
dispose  the  reader  to  join  in  the  applause  which  has  been  be 
stowed  on  this  Comedy  by  numerous  and  judicious  audiences, 
in  the  Theatres  of  Philadelphia,  New-  York,  and  Maryland. 


PROLOGUE 

Written  by  a  young  gentleman  of  New-York,  and  spoken 
by  Mr.  Wignell. 

Exult,  each  patriot  heart! — this  night  is  shewn 
A  piece,  which  we  may  fairly  call  our  own; 
Where  the  proud  titles  of  "My  Lord !  Your  Grace !" 
To  humble  Mr.  and  plain  Sir  give  place. 
Our  Author  pictures  not  from  foreign  climes 
The  fashions  or  the  follies  of  the  times; 
But  has  confin'd  the  subject  of  his  work 
To  the  gay  scenes — the  circles  of  New- York. 
On  native  themes  his  Muse  displays  her  pow'rs; 
If  ours  the  faults,  the  virtues  too  are  ours. 
Why  should  our  thoughts  to  distant  countries  roam, 
When  each  refinement  may  be  found  at  home? 
Who  travels  now  to  ape  the  rich  or  great, 
To  deck  an  equipage  and  roll  in  state; 
To  court  the  graces,  or  to  dance  with  ease, 
Or  by  hypocrisy  to  strive  to  please? 
Our  free-born  ancestors  such  arts  despis'd; 
Genuine  sincerity  alone  they  priz'd; 
Their  minds,  with  honest  emulation  fir'd, 
To  solid  good — not  ornament — aspir'd ; 
Or,  if  ambition  rous'd  a  bolder  flame, 
Stern  virtue  throve,  where  indolence  was  shame. 

But  modern  youths,  with  imitative  sense, 
Deem  taste  in  dress  the  proof  of  excellence; 
And  spurn  the  meanness  of  your  homespun  arts, 
Since  homespun  habits  would  obscure  their  parts; 
Whilst  all,  which  aims  at  splendour  and  parade, 
Must  come  from  Europe,  and  be  ready  made. 
Strange !  we  should  thus  our  native  worth  disclaim, 
And  check  the  progress  of  our  rising  fame. 
Yet  one,  whilst  imitation  bears  the  sway, 
Aspires  to  nobler  heights,  and  points  the  way. 


The  Contrast  445 

Be  rous'd,  my  friends!  his  bold  example  view; 
Let  your  own  Bards  be  proud  to  copy  you! 
Should  rigid  critics  reprobate  our  play, 
At  least  the  patriotic  heart  will  say, 
"Glorious  our  fall,  since  in  a  noble  cause. 
"The  bold  attempt  alone  demands  applause." 
Still  may  the  wisdom  of  the  Comic  Muse 
Exalt  your  merits,  or  your  faults  accuse. 
But  think  not,  'tis  her  aim  to  be  severe; — 
We  all  are  mortals,  and  as  mortals  err. 
If  candour  pleases,  we  are  truly  blest; 
Vice  trembles,  when  com  pell  'd  to  stand  confess'd. 
Let  not  light  Censure  on  your  faults  offend, 
Which  aims  not  to  expose  them,  but  amend. 
Thus  does  our  Author  to  your  candour  trust; 
Conscious,  the  free  are  generous,  as  just. 


CHARACTERS 

New-York. 

Maryland. 

COL.  MANLY, 

Mr.  Henry. 

Mr.  Hallam. 

DIMPLE, 

Mr.  Hallam. 

Mr.  Harper. 

VAN  ROUGH, 

Mr.  Morris. 

Mr.  Morris. 

JESS  AMY, 

Mr.  Harper. 

Mr.  Biddle. 

JONATHAN, 

Mr.  Wignell. 

Mr.  Wignell. 

CHARLOTTE, 

Mrs.  Morris. 

Mrs.  Morris. 

MARIA, 

Mrs.  Harper. 

Mrs.  Harper. 

LETITIA, 

Mrs.  Kenna. 

Mrs.  Williamson. 

JENNY, 

Miss  Tuke. 

Miss  W.  Tuke. 

SERVANTS. 


SCENE,  New-York. 


N.B.     The  lines  marked  with  inverted  commas,  "thus",  are  omitted  in  the 
representation. 


THE  CONTRAST 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.   An  Apartment  at  CHARLOTTE'S. 
CHARLOTTE  and  LETITIA  discovered. 

LETITIA.  And  so,  Charlotte,  you  really  think  the  pocket-hoop 
unbecoming. 

CHARLOTTE.  No,  I  don't  say  so:  It  may  be  very  becoming  to 
saunter  round  the  house  of  a  rainy  day;  to  visit  my  grand 
mamma,  or  to  go  to  Quakers'  meeting:  but  to  swim  in  a  minuet, 
with  the  eyes  of  fifty  well-dressed  beaux  upon  me,  to  trip  it  in  the 
Mall,  or  walk  on  the  Battery,  give  me  the  luxurious,  jaunty,  flow 
ing  bell-hoop.  It  would  have  delighted  you  to  have  seen  me  the 
last  evening,  my  charming  girl !  I  was  dangling  o'er  the  battery 
with  Billy  Dimple;  a  knot  of  young  fellows  were  upon  the  plat 
form;  as  I  passed  them  I  faltered  with  one  of  the  most  bewitch 
ing  false  steps  you  ever  saw,  and  then  recovered  myself  with  such 
a  pretty  confusion,  flirting  my  hoop  to  discover  a  jet  black  shoe 
and  brilliant  buckle.  Gad !  how  my  little  heart  thrilled  to  hear 
the  confused  raptures  of — "Demme,  Jack,  what  a  delicate  foot!" 
"Hal  General,  what  a  well-turned — " 

LETITIA.  Fie!  fie!  Charlotte  [Stopping  her  mouth.].  I  protest 
you  are  quite  a  libertine. 

CHARLOTTE.  Why,  my  dear  little  prude,  are  we  not  all  such 
libertines?  Do  you  think,  when  I  sat  tortured  two  hours  under 
the  hands  of  my  friseur,  and  an  hour  more  at  my  toilet,  that  I 
had  any  thoughts  of  my  aunt  Susan,  or  my  cousin  Betsey?  though 
they  are  both  allowed  to  be  critical  judges  of  dress. 

LETITIA.  Why,  who  should  we  dress  to  please,  but  those  who 
are  judges  of  its  merits? 

CHARLOTTE.  Why,  a  creature  who  does  not  know  Buff  on  from 
Soufle — Man! — my  Letitia — Man!  for  whom  we  dress,  walk, 
dance,  talk,  lisp,  languish,  and  smile.  Does  not  the  grave  Spec 
tator  assure  us  that  even  our  much  bepraised  diffidence,  modesty, 
and  blushes  are  all  directed  to  make  ourselves  good  wives  and 


448  Representative  Plays 

mothers  as  fast  as  we  can?  Why,  I'll  undertake  with  one  flirt  of 
this  hoop  to  bring  more  beaux  to  my  feet  in  one  week  than  the 
grave  Maria,  and  her  sentimental  circle,  can  do.  by  sighing  senti 
ment  till  their  hairs  are  grey. 

LETITIA.  Well,  I  won't  argue  with  you;  you  always  out-talk 
me;  let  us  change  the  subject.  I  hear  that  Mr.  Dimple  and 
Maria  are  soon  to  be  married. 

CHARLOTTE.  You  hear  true.  I  was  consulted  in  the  choice  of 
the  wedding  clothes.  She  is  to  be  married  in  a  delicate  white 
satin,  and  has  a  monstrous  pretty  brocaded  lutestring  for  the 
second  day.  It  would  have  done  you  good  to  have  seen  with 
what  an  affected  indifference  the  dear  sentimentalist  [turned  over 
a  thousand  pretty  things,  just  as  if  her  heart  did  not  palpitate 
with  her  approaching  happiness,  and  at  last  made  her  choice  and] l 
arranged  her  dress  with  such  apathy  as  if  she  did  not  know  that 
plain  white  satin  and  a  simple  blond  lace  would  shew  her  clear 
skin  and  dark  hair  to  the  greatest  advantage. 

LETITIA.  But  they  say  her  indifference  to  dress,  and  even  to 
the  gentleman  himself,  is  not  entirely  affected. 

CHARLOTTE.   How? 

LETITIA.  It  is  whispered  that  if  Maria  gives  her  hand  to  Mr. 
Dimple,  it  will  be  without  her  heart. 

CHARLOTTE.  Though  the  giving  the  heart  is  one  of  the  last  of 
all  laughable  considerations  in  the  marriage  of  a  girl  of  spirit,  yet 
I  should  like  to  hear  what  antiquated  notions  the  dear  little  piece 
of  old-fashioned  prudery  has  got  in  her  head. 

LETITIA.  Why,  you  know  that  old  Mr.  John-Richard-Robert- 
Jacob-Isaac-Abraham-Cornelius  Van  Dumpling,  Billy  Dimple's 
father  (for  he  has  thought  fit  to  soften  his  name,  as  well  as 
manners,  during  his  English  tour)  was  the  most  intimate  friend 
of  Maria's  father.  The  old  folks,  about  a  year  before  Mr.  Van 
Dumpling's  death,  proposed  this  match:  the  young  folks  were 
accordingly  introduced,  and  told  they  must  love  one  another. 
Billy  was  then  a  good-natured,  decent-dressing  young  fellow, 
with  a  little  dasli  of  the  coxcomb,  such  as  our  young  fellows  of 
fortune  usually  have.  At  this  time,  I  really  believe  she  thought 
she  loved  him;  and  had  they  then  been  married,  I  doubt  not  they 
might  have  jogged  on,  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  a  good  kind  of  a 
sing-song,  lack-a-daysaical  life,  as  other  honest  married  folks  do. 

1  The  omitted  passages  in  the  First  Edition,  indicated  by  inverted  commas,  are 
here  enclosed  in  heavy  brackets. 


The  Contrast  449 

CHARLOTTE.   Why  did  they  not  then  marry? 

LETITIA.  Upon  the  death  of  his  father,  Billy  went  to  England 
to  see  the  world  and  rub  off  a  little  of  the  patroon  rust.  During 
his  absence,  Maria,  like  a  good  girl,  to  keep  herself  constant  to 
her  nown  true-love,  avoided  company,  and  betook  herself,  for  her 
amusement,  to  her  books,  and  her  dear  Billy's  letters.  But, 
alas !  how  many  ways  has  the  mischievous  demon  of  inconstancy 
of  stealing  into  a  woman's  heart!  Her  love  was  destroyed  by 
the  very  means  she  took  to  support  it. 

CHARLOTTE.  How? — Oh!  I  have  it — some  likely  young  beau 
found  the  way  to  her  study. 

LETITIA.  Be  patient,  Charlotte;  your  head  so  runs  upon 
beaux.  Why,  she  read  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  Clarissa  Harlow, 
Shenstone,  and  the  Sentimental  Journey;  and  between  whiles,  as 
I  said,  Billy's  letters.  But,  as  her  taste  improved,  her  love 
declined.  The  contrast  was  so  striking  betwixt  the  good  sense 
of  her  books  and  the  flimsiness  of  her  love-letters,  that  she  dis 
covered  she  had  unthinkingly  engaged  her  hand  without  her 
heart;  and  then  the  whole  transaction,  managed  by  the  old  folks, 
now  appeared  so  unsentimental,  and  looked  so  like  bargaining  for 
a  bale  of  goods,  that  she  found  she  ought  to  have  rejected,  accord 
ing  to  every  rule  of  romance,  even  the  man  of  her  choice,  if 
imposed  upon  her  in  that  manner.  Clary  Harlow  would  have 
scorned  such  a  match. 

CHARLOTTE.  Well,  how  was  it  on  Mr.  Dimple's  return?  Did 
he  meet  a  more  favourable  reception  than  his  letters? 

LETITIA.  Much  the  same.  She  spoke  of  him  'with  respect 
abroad,  and  with  contempt  in  her  closet.  She  watched  his  con 
duct  and  conversation,  and  found  that  he  had  by  travelling 
acquired  the  wickedness  of  Lovelace  without  his  wit,  and  the 
politeness  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison  without  his  generosity.  The 
ruddy  youth,  who  washed  his  face  at  the  cistern  every  morning, 
and  swore  and  looked  eternal  love  and  constancy,  was  now  ** 
metamorphosed  into  a  flippant,  palid,  polite  beau,  who  devotes 
the  morning  to  his  toilet,  reads  a  few  pages  of  Chesterfield's 
letters,  and  then  minces  out,  to  put  the  infamous  principles  in 
practice  upon  every  woman  he  meets. 

CHARLOTTE.  But,  if  she  is  so  apt  at  conjuring  up  these  senti 
mental  bugbears,  why  does  she  not  discard  him  at  once? 

LETITIA.  Why,  she  thinks  her  word  too  sacred  to  be  trifled 
with.  Besides,  her  father,  who  has  a  great  respect  for  the  memory 


45°  Representative  Plays 

of  his  deceased  friend,  is  ever  telling  her  how  he  shall  renew  his 
years  in  their  union,  and  repeating  the  dying  injunctions  of  old 
Van  Dumpling. 

CHARLOTTE.  A  mighty  pretty  story!  And  so  you  would  make 
me  believe  that  the  sensible  Maria  would  give  up  Dumpling 
Manor,  and  the  all-accomplished  Dimple  as  a  husband,  for  the 
absurd,  ridiculous  reason,  forsooth,  because  she  despises  and 
abhors  him.  Just  as  if  a  lady  could  not  be  privileged  to  spend 
a  man's  fortune,  ride  in  his  carriage,  be  called  after  his  name, 
and  call  him  her  nown  dear  lovee  when  she  wants  money,  without 
loving  and  respecting  the  great  he-creature.  Oh !  my  dear  girl, 
you  are  a  monstrous  prude. 

LETITIA.  I  don't  say  what  I  would  do;  I  only  intimate  how  I 
suppose  she  wishes  to  act. 

CHARLOTTE.  No,  no,  no!  A  fig  for  sentiment.  If  she  breaks, 
or  wishes  to  break,  with  Mr.  Dimple,  depend  upon  it,  she  has 
some  other  man  in  her  eye.  A  woman  rarely  discards  one  lover 
until  she  is  sure  of  another.  Letitia  little  thinks  what  a  clue  I 
have  to  Dimple's  conduct.  The  generous  man  submits  to  render 
himself  disgusting  to  Maria,  in  order  that  she  may  leave  him  at 
liberty  to  address  me.  I  must  change  the  subject. 

[Aside,  and  rings  a  bell. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Frank,  order  the  horses  to. Talking  of  marriage,  did  you 

hear  that  Sally  Bloomsbury  is  going  to  be  married  next  week 
to  Mr.  Indigo,  the  rich  Carolinian? 

LETITIA.  Sally  Bloomsbury  married ! — why,  she  is  not  yet  in 
her  teens. 

CHARLOTTE.  I  do  not  know  how  that  is,  but  you  may  depend 
upon  it,  'tis  a  done  affair.  I  have  it  from  the  best  authority. 
There  is  my  aunt  Wyerly's  Hannah  (you  know  Hannah;  though 
a  black,  she  is  a  wench  that  was  never  caught  in  a  lie  in  her  life) ; 
now,  Hannah  has  a  brother  who  courts  Sarah,  Mrs.  Catgut  the 
milliner's  girl,  and  she  told  Hannah's  brother,  and  Hannah,  who, 
as  I  said  before,  is  a  girl  of  undoubted  veracity,  told  it  directly 
to  me,  that  Mrs.  Catgut  was  making  a  new  cap  for  Miss  Blooms- 
bury,  which,  as  it  was  very  dressy,  it  is  very  probable  is  designed 
for  a  wedding  cap.  Now,  as  she  is  to  be  married,  who  can  it 
be  to,  but  to  Mr.  Indigo?  Why,  there  is  no  other  gentleman  that 
visits  at  her  papa's. 


The  Contrast  451 

LETITIA.  Say  not  a  word  more,  Charlotte.  Your  intelligence 
is  so  direct  and  well  grounded,  it  is  almost  a  pity  that  it  is  not  a 
piece  of  scandal. 

CHARLOTTE.  Oh !  I  am  the  pink  of  prudence.  Though  I  can 
not  charge  myself  with  ever  having  discredited  a  tea-party  by 
my  silence,  yet  I  take  care  never  to  report  any  thing  of  my 
acquaintance,  especially  if  it  is  to  their  credit, — discredit,  I  mean, 
— until  I  have  searched  to  the  bottom  of  it.  It  is  true,  there  is 
infinite  pleasure  in  this  charitable  pursuit.  Oh!  how  delicious  to 
go  and  condole  with  the  friends  of  some  backsliding  sister,  or  to 
retire  with  some  old  dowager  or  maiden  aunt  of  the  family,  who  j 
love  scandal  so  well  that  they  cannot  forbear  gratifying  their  ap-  ' 
petite  at  the  expence  of  the  reputation  of  their  nearest  relations! ! 
And  then  to  return  full  fraught  with  a  rich  collection  of  circum 
stances,  to  retail  to  the  next  circle  of  our  acquaintance  under  the 
strongest  injunctions  of  secrecy, — ha,  ha,  ha! — interlarding  the 
melancholy  tale  with  so  many  doleful  shakes  of  the  head,  and 
more  doleful  "Ah!  who  would  have  thought  it!  so  amiable,  so 
prudent  a  young  lady,  as  we  all  thought  her,  what  a  monstrous 
pity!  well,  I  have  nothing  to  charge  myself  with;  I  acted  the  part 
of  a  friend,  I  warned  her  of  the  principles  of  that  rake,  I  told  her 
what  would  be  the  consequence;  I  told  her  so,  I  told  her  so." — 
Ha,  ha,  ha! 

LETITIA.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Well,  but,  Charlotte,  you  don't  tell  me 
what  you  think  of  Miss  Bloomsbury's  match. 

CHARLOTTE.  Think!  why  I  think  it  is  probable  she  cried  for 
a  plaything,  and  they  have  given  her  a  husband.  Well,  well,  well, 
the  puling  chit  shall  not  be  deprived  of  her  plaything:  'tis  only  ex 
changing  London  dolls  for  American  babies. — Apropos,  of  babies, 
have  you  heard  what  Mrs.  Affable's  high-flying  notions  of  delicacy 
have  come  to? 

LETITIA.  Who,  she  that  was  Miss  Lovely? 

CHARLOTTE.  The  same;  she  married  Bob  Affable  of  Schenec- 
tady.  Don't  you  remember? 

Enter  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.    Madam,  the  carriage  is  ready. 
LETITIA.   Shall  we  go  to  the  stores  first,  or  visiting? 
CHARLOTTE.    I  should  think  it  rather  too  early  to  visit,  especi 
ally  Mrs.  Prim;  you  know  she  is  so  particular. 
LETITIA.  Well,  but  what  of  Mrs.  Affable? 


452  Representative  Plays 

CHARLOTTE.  Oh,  I'll  tell  you  as  we  go;  come,  come,  let  us 
hasten.  I  hear  Mrs.  Catgut  has  some  of  the  prettiest  caps 
arrived  you  ever  saw.  I  shall  die  if  I  have  not  the  first  sight 
of  them.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.   A  Room  in  VAN  ROUGH'S  House. 
MARIA  [sitting  disconsolate  at  a  table,  with  books,  £fc.]. 

SONG.1 

I. 

The  sun  sets  in  night,  and  the  stars  shun  the  day; 
But  glory  remains  when  their  lights  fade  away! 
Begin,  ye  tormentors!  your  threats  are  in  vain, 
For  the  son  of  Alknomook  shall  never  complain. 

II. 

Remember  the  arrows  he  shot  from  his  bow; 
Remember  your  chiefs  by  his  hatchet  laid  low: 
Why  so  slow? — do  you  wait  till  I  shrink  from  the  pain? 
No — the  son  of  Alknomook  will  never  complain. 

III. 

Remember  the  wood  where  in  ambush  we  lay; 
And  the  scalps  which  we  bore  from  your  nation  away: 
Now  the  flame  rises  fast,  you  exult  in  my  pain; 
But  the  son  of  Alknomook  can  never  complain. 

IV. 

I  go  to  the  land  where  my  father  is  gone; 
His  ghost  shall  rejoice  in  the  fame  of  his  son: 
Death  comes  like  a  friend,  he  relieves  me  from  pain; 
And  thy  son,  O  Alknomook !  has  scorn'd  to  complain. 

There  is  something  in  this  song  which  ever  calls  forth  my 
affections.  The  manly  virtue  of  courage,  that  fortitude  which 
steels  the  heart  against  the  keenest  misfortunes,  which  inter 
weaves  the  laurel  of  glory  amidst  the  instruments  of  torture  and 
death,  displays  something  so  noble,  so  exalted,  that  in  despite 
of  the  prejudices  of  education,  I  cannot  but  admire  it,  even  in  a 

1  A  page  reproduction  of  the  original  music  is  given  in  the  Dunlap  reprint  of 
this  play. 


The  Contrast  453 

savage.  The  prepossession  which  our  sex  is  supposed  to  enter 
tain  for  the  character  of  a  soldier  is,  I  know,  a  standing  piece  of 
raillery  among  the  wits.  A  cockade,  a  lapell'd  coat,  and  a  feather, 
they  will  tell  you,  are  irresistible  by  a  female  heart.  Let  it  be 
so.  Who  is  it  that  considers  the  helpless  situation  of  our  sex, 
that  does  not  see  that  we  each  moment  stand  in  need  of  a  pro 
tector,  and  that  a  brave  one  too?  [Formed  of  the  more  delicate 
materials  of  nature,  endowed  only  with  the  softer  passions, 
incapable,  from  our  ignorance  of  the  world,  to  guard  against  the 
wiles  of  mankind,  our  security  for  happiness  often  depends  upon 
their  generosity  and  courage : — Alas !  how  little  of  the  former  do 
we  find!]  How  inconsistent!  that  man  should  be  leagued  to 
destroy  that  honour  upon  which  solely  rests  his  respect  and 
esteem.  Ten  thousand  temptations  allure  us,  ten  thousand  pas 
sions  betray  us;  yet  the  smallest  deviation  from  the  path  of 
rectitude  is  followed  by  the  contempt  and  -insult  of  man,  and 
the  more  remorseless  pity  of  woman;  years  of  penitence  and 
tears  cannot  wash  away  the  stain,  nor  a  life  of  virtue  obliterate 
its  remembrance.  [Reputation  is  the  life  of  woman;  yet  courage 
to  protect  it  is  masculine  and  disgusting;  and  the  only  safe 
asylum  a  woman  of  delicacy  can  find  is  in  the  arms  of  a  man  of 
honour.  How  naturally,  then,  should  we  love  the  brave  and  the 
generous;  how  gratefully  should  we  bless  the  arm  raised  for  our 
protection,  when  nerv'd  by  virtue  and  directed  by  honour!] 
Heaven  grant  that  the  man  with  whom  I  may  be  connected — 
may  be  connected! — Whither  has  my  imagination  transported 
me — whither  does  it  now  lead  me?  Am  I  not  indissolubly  en 
gaged,  [by  every  obligation  of  honour  which  my  own  consent 
and  my  father's  approbation  can  give,]  to  a  man  who  can  never 
share  my  affections,  and  whom  a  few  days  hence  it  will  be 
criminal  for  me  to  disapprove — to  disapprove !  would  to  heaven 
that  were  all — to  despise.  For,  can  the  most  frivolous  manners, 
actuated  by  the  most  depraved  heart,  meet,  or  merit,  anything 
but  contempt  from  every  woman  of  delicacy  and  sentiment? 

[VAN  ROUGH  without:  Mary!  ] 
Ha!  my  father's  voice — Sir! — 

Enter  VAN  ROUGH. 

VAN  ROUGH.  What,  Mary,  always  singing  doleful  ditties,  and 
moping  over  these  plaguy  books. 


454  Representative  Plays 

MARIA.  I  hope,  sir,  that  it  is  not  criminal  to  improve  my  mind 
with  books;  or  to  divert  my  melancholy  with  singing,  at  my 
leisure  hours. 

VAN  ROUGH.  Why,  I  don't  know  that,  child;  I  don't  know 
that.  They  us'd  to  say,  when  I  was  a  young  man,  that  if  a 
woman  knew  how  to  make  a  pudding,  and  to  keep  herself  out  of 
fire  and  water,  she  knew  enough  for  a  wife.  Now,  what  good  have 
these  books  done  you?  have  they  not  made  you  melancholy?  as 
you  call  it.  Pray,  what  right  has  a  girl  of  your  age  to  be  in  the 
dumps?  hav'n't  you  every  thing  your  heart  can  wish;  an't  you 
going  to  be  married  to  a  young  man  of  great  fortune;  an't  you 
going  to  have  the  quit-rent  of  twenty  miles  square? 

MARIA.  One  hundredth  part  of  the  land,  and  a  lease  for  life  of 
the  heart  of  a  man  I  could  love,  would  satisfy  me. 

VAN  ROUGH.  Pho,  pho,  pho!  child;  nonsense,  downright  non 
sense,  child.  This  comes  of  your  reading  your  story-books;  your 
Charles  Grandisons,  your  Sentimental  Journals,  and  your  Robin 
son  Crusoes,  and  such  other  trumpery.  No,  no,  no!  child,  it  is 
money  makes  the  mare  go;  keep  your  eye  upon  the  main  chance, 
Mary. 

MARIA.   Marriage,  sir,  is,  indeed,  a  very  serious  affair. 

VAN  ROUGH.  You  are  right,  child ;  you  are  right.  I  am  sure  I 
found  it  so,  to  my  cost. 

MARIA.  I  mean,  sir,  that  as  marriage  is  a  portion  for  life,  and 
so  intimately  involves  our  happiness,  we  cannot  be  too  con 
siderate  in  the  choice  of  our  companion. 

VAN  ROUGH.  Right,  child ;  very  right.  A  young  woman  should 
be  very  sober  when  she  is  making  her  choice,  but  when  she  has 
once  made  it,  as  you  have  done,  I  don't  see  why  she  should  not  be 
as  merry  as  a  grig;  I  am  sure  she  has  reason  enough  to  be  so. 
Solomon  says  that  "there  is  a  time  to  laugh,  and  a  time  to  weep." 
Now,  a  time  for  a  young  woman  to  laugh  is  when  she  has  made 
sure  of  a  good  rich  husband.  Now,  a  time  to  cry,  according  to 
you,  Mary,  is  when  she  is  making  choice  of  him;  but  I  should 
think  that  a  young  woman's  time  to  cry  was  when  she  despaired 
of  getting  one.  Why,  there  was  your  mother,  now :  to  be  sure, 
when  I  popp'd  the  question  to  her  she  did  look  a  little  silly; 
but  when  she  had  once  looked  down  on  her  apron-strings,  as  all 
modest  young  women  us'd  to  do,  and  drawled  out  ye-s,  she 
was  as  brisk  and  as  merry  as  a  bee. 


The  Contrast  455 

MARIA.  My  honoured  mother,  sir,  had  no  motive  to  melan 
choly;  she  married  the  man  of  her  choice. 

VAN  ROUGH.  The  man  of  her  choice!  And  pray,  Mary,  an't 
you  going  to  marry  the  man  of  your  choice — what  trumpery 
notion  is  this?  It  is  these  vile  books  [Throwing  them  away.].  I'd 
have  you  to  know,  Mary,  if  you  won't  make  young  Van  Dumpling 
the  man  of  your  choice,  you  shall  marry  him  as  the  man  of  my 
choice. 

MARIA.  You  terrify  me,  sir.  Indeed,  sir,  I  am  all  submission. 
My  will  is  yours. 

VAN  ROUGH.  Why,  that  is  the  way  your  mother  us'd  to  talk. 
"My  will  is  yours,  my  dear  Mr.  Van  Rough,  my  will  is  yours;" 
but  she  took  special  care  to  have  her  own  way,  though,  for  all 
that. 

MARIA.   Do  not  reflect  upon  my  mother's  memory,  sir — 

VAN  ROUGH.  Why  not,  Mary,  why  not?  She  kept  me  from 
speaking  my  mind  all  her  life,  and  do  you  think  she  shall  henpeck 
me  now  she  is  dead  too?  Come,  come;  don't  go  to  sniveling;  be 
a  good  girl,  and  mind  the  main  chance.  I'll  see  you  well  settled 
in  the  world. 

MARIA.  I  do  not  doubt  your  love,  sir,  and  it  is  my  duty  to 
obey  you.  I  will  endeavour  to  make  my  duty  and  inclination  go 
hand  in  hand. 

VAN  ROUGH.  Well,  well,  Mary;  do  you  be  a  good  girl,  mind 
the  main  chance,  and  never  mind  inclination.  Why,  do  you  know 
that  I  have  been  down  in  the  cellar  this  very  morning  to  examine 
a  pipe  of  Madeira  which  I  purchased  the  week  you  were  born, 
and  mean  to  tap  on  your  wedding  day? — That  pipe  cost  me 
fifty  pounds  sterling.  It  was  well  worth  sixty  pounds;  but  I 
over-reach'd  Ben  Bulkhead,  the  supercargo:  I'll  tell  you  the 
whole  story.  You  must  know  that — 

Enter  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.   Sir,  Mr.  Transfer,  the  broker,  is  below.  [Exit. 

VAN  ROUGH.  Well,  Mary,  I  must  go.    Remember,  and  be  a 

good  girl,  and  mind  the  main  chance.  [Exit. 

MARIA  [alone]. 

How  deplorable  is  my  situation!  How  distressing  for  a  daugh-  I 
ter  to  find  her  heart  militating  with  her  filial  duty!  I  know  my  I 
father  loves  me  tenderly;  why  then  do  I  reluctantly  obey  him? 


456  Representative  Plays 

[Heaven  knows!  with  what  reluctance  I  should  oppose  the  will 
of  a  parent,  or  set  an  example  of  filial  disobedience;]  at  a  parent's 
command,  I  could  wed  awkwardness  and  deformity.  [Were  the 
heart  of  my  husband  good,  I  would  so  magnify  his  good  qualities 
with  the  eye  of  conjugal  affection,  that  the  defects  of  his  person 
and  manners  should  be  lost  in  the  emanation  of  his  virtues.] 
At  a  father's  command,  I  could  embrace  poverty.  Were  the 
poor  man  my  husband,  I  would  learn  resignation  to  my  lot;  I 
would  enliven  our  frugal  meal  with  good  humour,  and  chase 
away  misfortune  from  our  cottage  with  a  smile.  At  a  father's 
command,  I  could  almost  submit  to  what  every  female  heart 
knows  to  be  the  most  mortifying,  to  marry  a  weak  man,  and 
blush  at  my  husband's  folly  in  every  company  I  visited.  But 
to  marry  a  depraved  wretch,  whose  only  virtue  is  a  polished 
exterior;  [who  is  actuated  by  the  unmanly  ambition  of  conquer 
ing  the  defenceless;  whose  heart,  insensible  to  the  emotions  of 
patriotism,  dilates  at  the  plaudits  of  every  unthinking  girl;] 
whose  laurels  are  the  sighs  and  tears  of  the  miserable  victims  of 
his  specious  behaviour — Can  he,  who  has  no  regard  for  the  peace 
and  happiness  of  other  families,  ever  have  a  due  regard  for  the 
peace  and  happiness  of  his  own?  Would  to  heaven  that  my  father 
were  not  so  hasty  in  his  temper!  Surely,  if  I  were  to  state  my 
reasons  for  declining  this  match,  he  would  not  compel  me  to 
marry  a  man, — whom,  though  my  lips  may  solemnly  promise  to 
honour,  I  find  my  heart  must  ever  despise.  [Exit. 

End  of  the  First  Act. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

Enter  CHARLOTTE  and  LETITIA. 

CHARLOTTE  [at  entering]. 

Betty,  take  those  things  out  of  the  carriage  and  carry  them 
to  my  chamber;  see  that  you  don't  tumble  them.  My  dear,  I 
protest,  I  think  it  was  the  homeliest  of  the  whole.  I  declare  I 
was  almost  tempted  to  return  and  change  it. 

LETITIA.   Why  would  you  take  it? 

CHARLOTTE.  [Didn't  Mrs.  Catgut  say  it  was  the  most  fashion 
able? 


The  Contrast  457 

LETITIA.    But,  my  dear,  it  will  never  fit  becomingly  on  you. 

CHARLOTTE.  I  know  that;  but  did  not  you  hear  Mrs.  Catgut 
say  it  was  fashionable? 

LETITIA.    Did  you  see  that  sweet  airy  cap  with  the  white  sprig? 

CHARLOTTE.  Yes,  and  I  longed  to  take  it;  but,]  my  dear,  what 
could  I  do?  Did  not  Mrs.  Catgut  say  it  was  the  most  fashion 
able;  and  if  I  had  not  taken  it,  was  not  that  awkward,  gawky 
Sally  Slender  ready  to  purchase  it  immediately? 

LETITIA.  [Did  you  observe  how  she  tumbled  over  the  things  at 
the  next  shop,  and  then  went  off  without  purchasing  any  thing, 
nor  even  thanking  the  poor  man  for  his  trouble?  But,  of  all  the 
awkward  creatures,  did  you  see  Miss  Blouze  endeavouring  to 
thrust  her  unmerciful  arm  into  those  small  kid  gloves? 

CHARLOTTE.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!] 

LETITIA.  Then  did  you  take  notice  with  what  an  affected 
warmth  of  friendship  she  and  Miss  Wasp  met?  \vhen  all  their 
acquaintance  know  how  much  pleasure  they  take  in  abusing  each 
other  in  every  company. 

CHARLOTTE.  Lud!  Letitia,  is  that  so  extraordinary?  Why,  my 
dear,  I  hope  you  are'not  going  to  turn  sentimentalist.  Scandal, 
you  know,  is  but  amusing  ourselves  with  the  faults,  foibles,  fol 
lies,  and  reputations  of  our  friends;  indeed,  I  don't  know  why  we 
should  have  friends,  if  we  are  not  at  liberty  to  make  use  of  them. 
But  no  person  is  so  ignorant  of  the  world  as  to  suppose,  because 
I  amuse  myself  with  a  lady's  faults,  that  I  am  obliged  to  quarrel 
with  her  person  every  time  we  meet:  believe  me,  my  dear,  we 
should  have  very  few  acquaintances  at  that  rate. 

SERVANT  enters  and  delivers  a  letter  to  CHARLOTTE,  and — [Exit. 

CHARLOTTE.   You'll  excuse  me,  my  dear. 

[Opens  and  reads  to  herself. 

LETITIA.   Oh,  quite  excusable. 

CHARLOTTE.  As  I  hope  to  be  married,  my  brother  Henry  is  in 
the  city. 

LETITIA.   What,  your  brother,  Colonel  Manly? 

CHARLOTTE.  Yes,  my  dear;  the  only  brother  I  have  in  the 
world. 

LETITIA.   Was  he  never  in  this  city? 

CHARLOTTE.  Never  nearer  than  Harlem  Heights,  where  he  lay 
with  his  regiment. 


458  Representative  Plays 

LETITIA.  What  sort  of  a  being  is  this  brother  of  yours?  If  he 
is  as  chatty,  as  pretty,  as  sprightly  as  you,  half  the  belles  in  the 
city  will  be  pulling  caps  for  him. 

CHARLOTTE.  My  brother  is  the  very  counterpart  and  reverse 
of  me:  I  am  gay,  he  is  grave;  I  am  airy,  he  is  solid;  I  am  ever 
selecting  the  most  pleasing  objects  for  my  laughter,  he  has  a  tear 
for  every  pitiful  one.  And  thus,  whilst  he  is  plucking  the  briars 
and  thorns  from  the  path  of  the  unfortunate,  I  am  strewing  my 
own  path  with  roses. 

LETITIA.  My  sweet  friend,  not  quite  so  poetical,  and  a  little 
more  particular. 

CHARLOTTE.  Hands  off,  Letitia.  I  feel  the  rage  of  simile  upon 
me;  I  can't  talk  to  you  in  any  other  way.  My  brother  has  a 
heart  replete  with  the  noblest  sentiments,  but  then,  it  is  like — 
it  is  like — Oh!  you  provoking  girl,  you  have  deranged  all  my 
ideas — it  is  like — Oh !  I  have  it — his  heart  is  like  an  old  maiden 
lady's  band-box;  it  contains  many  costly  things,  arranged  with 
the  most  scrupulous  nicety,  yet  the  misfortune  is  that  they  are 
too  delicate,  costly,  and  antiquated  for  common  use. 

LETITIA.  By  what  I  can  pick  out  of  your  flowery  description, 
your  brother  is  no  beau. 

CHARLOTTE.  No,  indeed ;  he  makes  no  pretension  to  the  charac 
ter.  He'd  ride,  or  rather  fly,  an  hundred  miles  to  relieve  a  dis 
tressed  object,  or  to  do  a  gallant  act  in  the  service  of  his  country; 
but,  should  you  drop  your  fan  or  bouquet  in  his  presence,  it  is 
ten  to  one  that  some  beau  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  would 
have  the  honour  of  presenting  it  to  you  before  he  had  observed 
that  it  fell.  I'll  tell  you  one  of  his  antiquated,  anti-gallant 
notions.  He  said  once  in  my  presence,  in  a  room  full  of  company, 
— would  you  believe  it? — in  a  large  circle  of  ladies,  that  the  best 
evidence  a  gentleman  could  give  a  young  lady  of  his  respect  and 
affection  was  to  endeavour  in  a  friendly  manner  to  rectify  her 
foibles.  I  protest  I  was  crimson  to  the  eyes,  upon  reflecting  that 
I  was  known  as  his  sister. 

LETITIA.  Insupportable  creature!  tell  a  lady  of  her  faults!  If 
he  is  so  grave,  I  fear  I  have  no  chance  of  captivating  him. 

CHARLOTTE.  [His  conversation  is  like  a  rich,  old-fashioned 
brocade, — it  will  stand  alone ;  every  sentence  is  a  sentiment.  Now 
you  may  judge  what  a  time  I  had  with  him,  in  my  twelve  months' 
visit  to  my  father.  He  read  me  such  lectures,  out  of  pure  brother 
ly  affection,  against  the  extremes  of  fashion,  dress,  flirting,  and 


The  Contrast  459 

coquetry,  and  all  the  other  dear  things  which  he  knows  I  dote 
upon,  that  I  protest  his  conversation  made  me  as  melancholy 
as  if  I  had  been  at  church;  and,  heaven  knows,  though  I  never 
prayed  to  go  there  but  on  one  occasion,  yet  I  would  have  ex 
changed  his  conversation  for  a  psalm  and  a  sermon.  Church 
is  rather  melancholy,  to  be  sure;  but  then  I  can  ogle  the  beaux, 
and  be  regaled  with  "here  endeth  the  first  lesson,"  but  his 
brotherly  here,  you  would  think  had  no  end.]  You  captivate 
him!  Why,  my  dear,  he  would  as  soon  fall  in  love  with  a  box 
of  Italian  flowers.  There  is  Maria,  now,  if  she  were  not  engaged, 
she  might  do  something.  Oh !  how  I  should  like  to  see  that  pair 
of  pensorosps  together,  looking  as  grave  as  two  sailors'  wives 
of  a  stormy  night,  with  a  flow  of  sentiment  meandering  through 
their  conversation  like  purling  streams  in  modern  poetry. 

LETITIA.   Oh !  my  dear  fanciful — 

CHARLOTTE.  Hush!  I  hear  some  person  coming  through  the 
entry. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.  Madam,  there's  a  gentleman  below  who  calls  him 
self  Colonel  Manly;  do  you  choose  to  be  at  home? 

CHARLOTTE.  Shew  him  in.  [Exit  SERVANT.  ]  Now  for  a  sober 
face. 

Enter  COLONEL  MANLY. 

MANLY.  My  dear  Charlotte,  I  am  happy  that  I  once  more 
enfold  you  within  the  arms  of  fraternal  affection.  I  know  you  are 
going  to  ask  (amiable  impatience!)  how  our  parents  do, — the 
venerable  pair  transmit  you  their  blessing  by  me — they  totter  on 
the  verge  of  a  well-spent  life,  and  wish  only  to  see  their,  children 
settled  in  the  world,  to  depart  in  peace. 

CHARLOTTE.  I  am  very  happy  to  hear  that  they  are  well. 
[Coolly.  ]  Brother,  will  you  give  me  leave  to  introduce  you  to  our 
uncle's  ward,  one  of  my  most  intimate  friends? 

MANLY  [Saluting  LETITIA.].  I  ought  to  regard  your  friends  as 
my  own. 

CHARLOTTE.  Come,  Letitia,  do  give  us  a  little  dash  of  your 
vivacity;  my  brother  is  so  sentimental  and  so  grave,  that  I  pro 
test  he'll  give  us  the  vapours. 

MANLY.  Though  sentiment  and  gravity,  I  know,  are  banished 
the  polite  world,  yet  I  hoped  they  might  find  some  countenance 
in  the  meeting  of  such  near  connections  as  brother  and  sister. 


460  Representative  Plays 

CHARLOTTE.  Positively,  brother,  if  you  go  one  step  further  in 
this  strain,  you  will  set  me  crying,  and  that,  you  know,  would 
spoil  my  eyes;  and  then  I  should  never  get  the  husband  which 
our  good  papa  and  mamma  have  so  kindly  wished  me — never  be 
established  in  the  world. 

MANLY.  Forgive  me,  my  sister, — I  am  no  enemy  to  mirth ;  I 
love  your  sprightliness;  and  I  hope  it  will  one  day  enliven  the 
hours  of  some  worthy  man;  but  when  I  mention  the  respectable 
authors  of  my  existence, — the  cherishers  and  protectors  of  my 
helpless  infancy,  whose  hearts  glow  with  such  fondness  and 
attachment  that  they  would  willingly  lay  down  their  lives  for  my 
welfare, — you  will  excuse  me  if  I  am  so  unfashionable  as  to  speak 
of  them  with  some  degree  of  respect  and  reverence. 

CHARLOTTE.  Well,  well,  brother;  if  you  won't  be  gay,  we'll 
not  differ;  I  will  be  as  grave  as  you  wish.  [Affects  gravity.] 
And  so,  brother,  you  have  come  to  the  city  to  exchange  some 
of  your  commutation  notes  for  a  little  pleasure. 

MANLY.  Indeed  you  are  mistaken;  my  errand  is  not  of  amuse 
ment,  but  business;  and  as  I  neither  drink  nor  game,  my  ex- 
pences  will  be  so  trivial,  I  shall  have  no  occasion  to  sell  my 
notes. 

CHARLOTTE.  Then  you  won't  have  occasion  to  do  a  very  good 
thing.  Why,  here  was  the  Vermont  General — he  came  down 
some  time  since,  sold  all  his  musty  notes  at  one  stroke,  and 
then  laid  the  cash  out  in  trinkets  for  his  dear  Fanny.  I  want  a 
dozen  pretty  things  myself;  have  you  got  the  notes  with  you? 

MANLY.  I  shall  be  ever  willing  to  contribute,  as  far  as  it  is  in 
my  power,  to  adorn  or  in  any  way  to  please  my  sister;  yet  I  hope 
I  shall  never  be  obliged  for  this  to  sell  my  notes.  I  may  be 
romantic,  but  I  preserve  them  as  a  sacred  deposit.  Their  full 
amount  is  justly  due  to  me,  but  as  embarrassments,  the  natural 
consequences  of  a  long  war,  disable  my  country  from  supporting 
its  credit,  I  shall  wait  with  patience  until  it  is  rich  enough  to 
discharge  them.  If  that  is  not  in  my  day,  they  shall  be  trans 
mitted  as  an  honourable  certificate  to  posterity,  that  I  have 
humbly  imitated  our  illustrious  WASHINGTON,  in  having  exposed 
my  health  and  life  in  the  service  of  my  country,  without  reaping 
any  other  reward  than  the  glory  of  conquering  in  so  arduous  a 
contest. 

CHARLOTTE.  Well  said  heroics.  Why,  my  dear  Henry,  you 
have  such  a  lofty  way  of  saying  things,  that  I  protest  I  almost 


The  Contrast  461 

tremble  at  the  thought  of  introducing  you  to  the  polite  circles 
in  the  city.  The  belles  would  think  you  were  a  player  run  mad, 
with  your  head  filled  with  old  scraps  of  tragedy;  and,  as  to  the 
beaux,  they  might  admire,  because  they  would  not  understand 
you.  But,  however,  I  must,  I  believe,  venture  to  introduce  you 
to  two  or  three  ladies  of  my  acquaintance. 

LETITIA.  And  that  will  make  him  acquainted  with  thirty  or 
forty  beaux. 

CHARLOTTE.  Oh!  brother,  you  don't  know  what  a  fund  of 
happiness  you  have  in  store. 

MANLY.  I  fear,  sister,  I  have  not  refinement  sufficient  to 
enjoy  it. 

CHARLOTTE.    Oh!  you  cannot  fail  being  pleased. 

LETITIA.   Our  ladies  are  so  delicate  and  dressy. 

CHARLOTTE.   And  our  beaux  so  dressy  and  delicate. 

LETITIA.   Our  ladies  chat  and  flirt  so  agreeably. 

CHARLOTTE.   And  our  beaux  simper  and  bow  so  gracefully. 

LETITIA.   With  their  hair  so  trim  and  neat. 

CHARLOTTE.   And  their  faces  so  soft  and  sleek. 

LETITIA.   Their  buckles  so  tonish  and  bright. 

CHARLOTTE.   And  their  hands  so  slender  and  white. 

LETITIA.    I  vow,  Charlotte,  we  are  quite  poetical. 

CHARLOTTE.  And  then,  brother,  the  faces  of  the  beaux  are  of 
such  a  lily-white  hue!  None  of  that  horrid  robustness  of  consti 
tution,  that  vulgar  corn-fed  glow  of  health,  which  can  only  serve 
to  alarm  an  unmarried  lady  with  apprehensions,  and  prove  a 
melancholy  memento  to  a  married  one,  that  she  can  never  hope 
for  the  happiness  of  being  a  widow.  I  will  say  this  to  the  credit 
of  our  city  beaux,  that  such  is  the  delicacy  of  their  complexion, 
dress,  and  address,  that,  even  had  I  no  reliance  upon  the  honour 
of  the  dear  Adonises,  I  would  trust  myself  in  any  possible  situa 
tion  with  them,  without  the  least  apprehensions  of  rudeness. 

MANLY.   Sister  Charlotte! 

CHARLOTTE.  Now,  now,  now,  brother  [Interrupting  him.], 
now  don't  go  to  spoil  my  mirth  with  a  dash  of  your  gravity,  I 
am  so  glad  to  see  you,  I  am  in  tiptop  spirits.  Oh!  that  you 
could  be  with  us  at  a  little  snug  party.  There  is  Billy  Simper, 
Jack  Chaffe,  and  Colonel  Van  Titter,  Miss  Promonade,  and  the 
two  Miss  Tambours,  sometimes  make  a  party,  with  some  other 
ladies,  in  a  side-box,  at  the  play.  Everything  is  conducted  with 
such  decorum, — first  we  bow  round  to  the  company  in  general, 


462  Representative  Plays 

then  to  each  one  in  particular,  then  we  have  so  many  inquiries 
after  each  other's  health,  and  we  are  so  happy  to  meet  each  other, 
and  it  is  so  many  ages  since  we  last  had  that  pleasure,  [and  if  a 
married  lady  is  in  company,  we  have  such  a  sweet  dissertation 
upon  her  son  Bobby's  chin-cough;]  then  the  curtain  rises,  then 
our  sensibility  is  all  awake,  and  then,  by  the  mere  force  of 
apprehension,  we  torture  some  harmless  expression  into  a  double 
meaning,  which  the  poor  author  never  dreamt  of,  and  then  we 
have  recourse  to  our  fans,  and  then  we  blush,  and  then  the 
gentlemen  jog  one  another,  peep  under  the  fan,  and  make  the 
prettiest  remarks;  and  then  we  giggle  and  they  simper,  and  they 
giggle  and  we  simper,  and  then  the  curtain  drops,  and  then  for 
nuts  and  oranges,  and  then  we  bow,  and  it's  Pray,  ma'am,  take 
it,  and  Pray,  sir,  keep  it,  and,  Oh!  not  for  the  world,  sir;  and 
then  the  curtain  rises  again,  and  then  we  blush  and  giggle  and 
simper  and  bow  all  over  again.  Oh!  the  sentimental  charms  of 
a  side-box  conversation!  [All  laugh.] 

MANLY.  Well,  sister,  I  join  heartily  with  you  in  the  laugh; 
for,  in  my  opinion,  it  is  as  justifiable  to  laugh  at  folly  as  it  is 
reprehensible  to  ridicule  misfortune. 

CHARLOTTE.  Well,  but,  brother,  positively  I  can't  introduce 
you  in  these  clothes:  why,  your  coat  looks  as  if  it  were  calcu 
lated  for  the  vulgar  purpose  of  keeping  yourself  comfortable. 

MANLY.  This  coat  was  my  regimental  coat  in  the  late  war. 
The  public  tumults  of  our  state  have  induced  me  to  buckle  on 
the  sword  in  support  of  that  government  which  I  once  fought 
to  establish.  I  can  only  say,  sister,  that  there  was  a  time  when 
this  coat  was  respectable,  and  some  people  even  thought  that 
those  men  who  had  endured  so  many  winter  campaigns  in  the 
service  of  their  country,  without  bread,  clothing,  or  pay,  at  least 
deserved  that  the  poverty  of  their  appearance  should  not  be 
ridiculed. 

CHARLOTTE.  We  agree  in  opinion  entirely,  brother,  though  it 
would  not  have  done  for  me  to  have  said  it:  it  is  the  coat  makes 
the  man  respectable.  In  the  time  of  the  war,  when  we  were 
almost  frightened  to  death,  why,  your  coat  was  respectable,  that 
is,  fashionable ;  now  another  kind  of  coat  is  fashionable,  that  is, 
respectable.  And,  pray,  direct  the  tailor  to  make  yours  the 
height  of  the  fashion. 

MANLY.  Though  it  is  of  little  consequence  to  me  of  what  shape 
my  coat  is,  yet,  as  to  the  height  of  the  fashion,  there  you  will  please 


The  Contrast  463 

to  excuse  me,  sister.  You  know  my  sentiments  on  that  subject. 
I  have  often  lamented  the  advantage  which  the  French  have 
over  us  in  that  particular.  In  Paris,  the  fashions  have  their 
dawnings,  their  routine,  and  declensions,  and  depend  as  much 
upon  the  caprice  of  the  day  as  in  other  countries;  but  there 
every  lady  assumes  a  right  to  deviate  from  the  general  ton  as 
far  as  will  be  of  advantage  to  her  own  appearance.  In  America, 
the  cry  is,  What  is  the  fashion?  and  we  follow  it  indiscriminately, 
because  it  is  so. 

CHARLOTTE.  Therefore  it  is,  that  when  large  hoops  are  in 
fashion,  we  often  see  many  a  plump  girl  lost  in  the  immensity  of 
a  hoop-petticoat,  whose  want  of  height  and  en-bon-point  would 
never  have  been  remarked  in  any  other  dress.  When  the  high 
head-dress  is  the  mode,  how  then  do  we  see  a  lofty  cushion,  with 
a  profusion  of  gauze,  feathers,  and  ribband,  supported  by  a  face 
no  bigger  than  an  apple;  whilst  a  broad,  full-faced  lady,  who 
really  would  have  appeared  tolerably  handsome  in  a  large  head 
dress,  looks  with  her  smart  chapeau  as  masculine  as  a  soldier. 

MANLY.  But  remember,  my  dear  sister,  and  I  wish  all  my  fair 
countrywomen  would  recollect,  that  the  only  excuse  a  young 
lady  can  have  for  going  extravagantly  into  a  fashion  is  because 
it  makes  her  look  extravagantly  handsome. — Ladies,  I  must  wish 
you  a  good  morning. 

CHARLOTTE.  But,  brother,  you  are  going  to  make  home  with  us. 

MANLY.  Indeed  I  cannot.  I  have  seen  my  uncle  and  ex 
plained  that  matter. 

CHARLOTTE.  Come  and  dine  with  us,  then.  We  have  a  family 
dinner  about  half-past  four  o'clock. 

MANLY.  I  am  engaged  to  dine  with  the  Spanish  ambassador. 
I  was  introduced  to  him  by  an  old  brother  officer;  and  instead 
of  freezing  me  with  a  cold  card  of  compliment  to  dine  with  him 
ten  days  hence,  he,  with  the  true  old  Castilian  frankness,  in  a 
friendly  manner,  asked  me  to  dine  with  him  to-day — an  honour 
I  could  not  refuse.  Sister,  adieu — madam,  your  most  obedient — 

[Exit. 

CHARLOTTE.  I  will  wait  upon  you  to  the  door,  brother;  I 
have  something  particular  to  say  to  you.  [Exit. 

LETITIA  [alone].  What  a  pair! — She  the  pink  of  flirtation,  he 
the  essence  of  everything  that  is  outre  and  gloomy. — I  think  I 
have  completely  deceived  Charlotte  by  my  manner  of  speaking  of 
Mr.  Dimple;  she's  too  much  the  friend  of  Maria  to  be  confided 


464  Representative  Plays 

in.  He  is  certainly  rendering  himself  disagreeable  to  Maria,  in 
order  to  break  with  her  and  proffer  his  hand  to  me.  This  is 
what  the  delicate  fellow  hinted  in  our  last  conversation.  [Exit. 


SCENE  II.   The  Mall. 

Enter  JESSAMY. 

Positively  this  Mall  is  a  very  pretty  place.  I  hope  the  cits 
won't  ruin  it  by  repairs.  To  be  sure,  it  won't  do  to  speak  of  in 
the  same  day  with  Ranelagh  or  Vauxhall;  however,  it's  a  fine 
place  for  a  young  fellow  to  display  his  person  to  advantage. 
Indeed,  nothing  is  lost  here;  the  girls  have  taste,  and  I  am  very 
happy  to  find  they  have  adopted  the  elegant  London  fashion 
of  looking  back,  after  a  genteel  fellow  like  me  has  passed  them. 
— Ah!  who  comes  here?  This,  by  his  awkwardness,  must  be 
the  Yankee  colonel's  servant.  I'll  accost  him. 

Enter  JONATHAN. 

JESSAMY.  Votre  tres-humble  serviteur,  Monsieur.  I  understand 
Colonel  Manly,  the  Yankee  officer,  has  the  honour  of  your  ser 
vices. 

JONATHAN.   Sir! — 

JESSAMY.  I  say,  sir,  I  understand  that  Colonel  Manly  has  the 
honour  of  having  you  for  a  servant. 

JONATHAN.  Servant !  Sir,  do  you  take  me  for  a  neger, — I  am 
Colonel  Manly's  waiter. 

JESSAMY.  A  true  Yankee  distinction,  egad,  without  a  differ 
ence.  Why,  sir,  do  you  not  perform  all  the  offices  of  a  servant? 
do  you  not  even  blacken  his  boots? 

JONATHAN.  Yes;  I  do  grease  them  a  bit  sometimes;  but  I  am 
a  true  blue  son  of  liberty,  for  all  that.  Father  said  I  should 
come  as  Colonel  Manly's  waiter,  to  see  the  world,  and  all  that; 
but  no  man  shall  master  me:  my  father  has  as  good  a  farm  as 
the  Colonel. 

JESSAMY.  Well,  sir,  we  will  not  quarrel  about  terms  upon  the 
eve  of  an  acquaintance  from  which  I  promise  myself  so  much 
satisfaction ; — therefore,  sans  ceremonie — 

JONATHAN.  What? — 


The  Contrast  465 

JESSAMY.  I  say  I  am  extremely  happy  to  see  Colonel  Manly's 
waiter. 

JONATHAN.  Well,  and  I  vow,  too,  I  am  pretty  considerably 
glad  to  see  you;  but  what  the  dogs  need  of  all  this  outlandish 
lingo?  Who  may  you  be,  sir,  if  I  may  be  so  bold? 

JESSAMY.  I  have  the  honour  to  be  Mr.  Dimple's  servant,  or,  if 
you  please,  waiter.  We  lodge  under  the  same  roof,  and  should 
be  glad  of  the  honour  of  your  acquaintance. 

JONATHAN.  You  a  waiter!  by  the  living  jingo,  you  look  so 
topping,  I  took  you  for  one  of  the  agents  to  Congress. 

JESSAMY.  The  brute  has  discernment,  notwithstanding  his 
appearance. — Give  me  leave  to  say  I  wonder  then  at  your 
familiarity. 

JONATHAN.  Why,  as  to  the  matter  of  that,  Mr. ;  pray, 

what's  your  name? 

JESSAMY.   Jessamy,  at  your  service. 

JONATHAN.  Why,  I  swear  we  don't  make  any  great  matter  of 
distinction  in  our  state  between  quality  and  other  folks. 

JESSAMY.  This  is,  indeed,  a  levelling  principle. — I  hope,  Mr. 
Jonathan,  you  have  not  taken  part  with  the  insurgents. 

JONATHAN.  Why,  since  General  Shays  has  sneaked  off  and 
given  us  the  bag  to  hold,  I  don't  care  to  give  my  opinion;  but 
you'll  promise  not  to  tell — put  your  ear  this  way — you  won't 
tell? — I  vow  I  did  think  the  sturgeons  were  right. 

JESSAMY.  I  thought,  Mr.  Jonathan,  you  Massachusetts-men 
always  argued  with  a  gun  in  your  hand.  Why  didn't  you  join 
them? 

JONATHAN.  Why,  the  Colonel  is  one  of  those  folks  called  the 
Shin — Shin — dang  it  all,  I  can't  speak  them  lignum  vita  words — 
you  know  who  I  mean — there  is  a  company  of  them — they  wear 
a  China  goose  at  their  button-hole — a  kind  of  gilt  thing. — Now 
the  Colonel  told  father  and  brother, — you  must  know  there  are, 
let  me  see — -there  is  Elnathan,  Silas,  and  Barnabas,  Tabitha — 
no,  no,  she's  a  she — tarnation,  now  I  have  it — there's  Elnathan, 
Silas,  Barnabas,  Jonathan,  that's  I — seven  of  us,  six  went  into 
the  wars,  and  I  stayed  at  home  to  take  care  of  mother.  Colonel 
said  that  it  was  a  burning  shame  for  the  true  blue  Bunker-Hill 
sons  of  liberty,  who  had  fought  Governor  Hutchinson,  Lord 
North,  and  the  Devil,  to  have  any  hand  in  kicking  up  a  cursed 
dust  against  a  government  which  we  had,  every  mother's  son 
of  us,  a  hand  in  making. 


466  Representative  Plays 

JESSAMY.  Bravo! — Well,  have  you  been  abroad  in  the  city 
since  your  arrival?  What  have  you  seen  that  is  curious  and 
entertaining? 

JONATHAN.  Oh!  I  have  seen  a  power  of  fine  sights.  I  went 
to  see  two  marble-stone  men  and  a  leaden  horse  that  stands  out 
in  doors  in  all  weathers ;  and  when  I  came  where  they  was,  one 
had  got  no  head,  and  t'  other  wer'n't  there.  They  said  as  how 
the  leaden  man  was  a  damn'd  tory,  and  that  he  took  wit  in  his 
anger  and  rode  off  in  the  time  of  the  troubles. 

JESSAMY.   But  this  was  not  the  end  of  your  excursion. 

JONATHAN.  Oh,  no;  I  went  to  a  place  they  call  Holy  Ground. 
Now  I  counted  this  was  a  place  where  folks  go  to  meeting;  so  I 
put  my  hymn-book  in  my  pocket,  and  walked  softly  and  grave 
as  a  minister;  and  when  I  came  there,  the  dogs  a  bit  of  a  meeting 
house  could  I  see.  At  last  I  spied  a  young  gentlewoman  stand 
ing  by  one  of  the  seats  which  they  have  here  at  the  doors.  I 
took  her  to  be  the  deacon's  daughter,  and  she  looked  so  kind, 
and  so  obliging,  that  I  thought  I  would  go  and  ask  her  the  way 
to  lecture,  and — would  you  think  it? — she  called  me  dear,  and 
sweeting,  and  honey,  just  as  if  we  were  married:  by  the  living 
jingo,  I  had  a  month's  mind  to  buss  her. 

JESSAMY.  Well,  but  how  did  it  end? 

JONATHAN.  Why,  as  I  was  standing  talking  with  her,  a  parcel 
of  sailor  men  and  boys  got  round  me,  the  snarl-headed  curs  fell 
a-kicking  and  cursing  of  me  at  such  a  tarnal  rate,  that  I  vow 
I  was  glad  to  take  to  my  heels  and  split  home,  right  off,  tail 
on  end,  like  a  stream  of  chalk. 

JESSAMY.  Why,  my  dear  friend,  you  are  not  acquainted  with 
the  city;  that  girl  you  saw  was  a — [Whispers.] 

JONATHAN.  Mercy  on  my  soul!  was  that  young  woman  a 
harlot! — Well!  if  this  is  New- York  Holy  Ground,  what  must 
the  Holy-day  Ground  be! 

JESSAMY.  Well,  you  should  not  judge  of  the  city  too  rashly. 
We  have  a  number  of  elegant  fine  girls  here  that  make  a  man's 
leisure  hours  pass  very  agreeably.  I  would  esteem  it  an  honour 
to  announce  you  to  some  of  them. — Gad!  that  announce  is  a 
select  word ;  I  wonder  where  I  picked  it  up. 

JONATHAN.   I  don't  want  to  know  them. 

JESSAMY.  Come,  come,  my  dear  friend,  I  see  that  I  must 
assume  the  honour  of  being  the  director  of  your  amusements. 
Nature  has  given  us  passions,  and  youth  and  opportunity  stimu- 


The  Contrast  467 

late  to  gratify  them.  It  is  no  shame,  my  dear  Blueskin,  for  a 
man  to  amuse  himself  with  a  little  gallantry. 

JONATHAN.  Girljiuntry!  I  don't  altogether  understand.  I 
never  played  at  that  game.  I  know  how  to  play  hunt  the  squirrel, 
but  I  can't  play  anything  with  the  girls;  I  am  as  good  as  mar 
ried. 

JESSAMY.  Vulgar,  horrid  brute!  Married,  and  above  a  hun 
dred  miles  from  his  wife,  and  think  that  an  objection  to  his 
making  love  to  every  woman  he  meecs!  He  never  can  have  read, 
no,  he  never  can  have  been  in  a  room  with  a  volume  of  the 
divine  Chesterfield. — So  you  are  married? 

JONATHAN.  No,  I  don't  say  so;  I  said  I  was  as  good  as  mar 
ried,  a  kind  of  promise. 

JESSAMY.  As  good  as  married ! — 

JONATHAN.  Why,  yes;  there's  Tabitha  Wymen,  the  deacon's 
daughter,  at  home ;  she  and  I  have  been  courting  a  great  while, 
and  folks  say  as  how  we  are  to  be  married ;  and  so  I  broke  a  piece 
of  money  with  her  when  we  parted,  and  she  promised  not  to 
spark  it  with  Solomon  Dyer  while  I  am  gone.  You  wou'dn't 
have  me  false  to  my  true-love,  would  you? 

JESSAMY.  Maybe  you  have  another  reason  for  constancy; 
possibly  the  young  lady  has  a  fortune?  Ha!  Mr.  Jonathan,  the 
solid  charms :  the  chains  of  love  are  never  so  binding  as  when 
the  links  are  made  of  gold. 

JONATH AN.  Why,  as  to  fortune,  I  must  needs  say  her  father  is 
pretty  dumb  rich;  he  went  representative  for  our  town  last  year. 
He  will  give  her — let  me  see — four  times  seven  is — seven  times 
four — nought  and  carry  one, — he  will  give  her  twenty  acres  of 
land — somewhat  rocky  though — a  Bible,  and  a  cow. 

JESSAMY.  Twenty  acres  of  rock,  a  Bible,  and  a  cow!  Why, 
my  dear  Mr.  Jonathan,  we  have  servant-maids,  or,  as  you  would 
more  elegantly  express  it,  waitresses,  in  this  city,  who  collect 
more  in  one  year  from  their  mistresses'  cast  clothes. 

JONATHAN.   You  don't  say  so! — 

JESSAMY.  Yes,  and  I'll  introduce  you  to  one  of  them.  There 
is  a  little  lump  of  flesh  and  delicacy  that  lives  at  next  door, 
waitress  to  Miss  Maria;  we  often  see  her  on  the  stoop. 

JONATHAN.    But  are  you  sure  she  would  be  courted  by  me? 

JESSAMY.  Never  doubt  it;  remember  a  faint  heart  never — 
blisters  on  my  tongue — I  was  going  to  be  guilty  of  a  vile  proverb ; 
flat  against  the  authority  of  Chesterfield.  I  say  there  can  be  no 


468  Representative  Plays 

doubt  that  the  brilliancy  of  your  merit  will  secure  you  a  favour 
able  reception. 

JONATHAN.  Well,  but  what  must  I  say  to  her? 

JESSAMY.  Say  to  her!  why,  my  dear  friend,  though  I  admire 
your  profound  knowledge  on  every  other  subject,  yet,  you  will 
pardon  my  saying  that  your  want  of  opportunity  has  made  the 
female  heart  escape  the  poignancy  of  your  penetration.  Say  to 
her!  Why,  when  a  man  gees  a-courting,  and  hopes  for  success, 
he  must  begin  with  doing,  aad  not  saying. 

JONATHAN.   Well,  what  must  I  do?  • 

JESSAMY.  Why,  when  you  are  introduced  you  must:  make  five 
or  six  elegant  bows. 

JONATHAN.  Six  elegant  bows!  I  understand  that:;  six,  you 
say?  Well— 

JESSAMY.  Then  you  must  press  and  kiss  her  hand;  then  press 
and  kiss,  and  so  on  to  her  lips  and  cheeks;  then  talk  as  much 
as  you  can  about  hearts,  darts,  flames,  nectar,  and  ambrosia — 
the  more  incoherent  the  better. 

JONATHAN.   Well,  but  suppose  she  should  be  angry  with  I? 

JESSAMY.  Why,  if  she  should  pretend — please  to  observe,  Mr. 
Jonathan — if  she  should  pretend  to  be  offended,  you  must — But 
I'll  tell  you  how  my  master  acted  in  such  a  case:  He  \vas  seated 
by  a  young  lady  of  eighteen  upon  a  sofa,  plucking  with  a  wanton 
hand  the  blooming  sweets  of  youth  and  beauty.  When  the 
lady  thought  it  necessary  to  check  his  ardour,  she  called  up  a 
frown  upon  her  lovely  face,  so  irresistibly  alluring,  that  it  would 
have  warmed  the  frozen  bosom  of  age;  remember,  said  she, 
putting  her  delicate  arm  upon  his,  remember  your  character 
and  my  honour.  My  master  instantly  dropped  upon  his  knees, 
with  eyes  swimming  with  love  cheeks  glowing  with  desire,  and 
in  the  gentlest  modulation  of  voice  he  said:  My  dear  Caroline, 
in  a  few  months  our  hands  will  be  indissolubly  united  at  the 
altar;  our  hearts  1  feel  are  already  so;  the  favours  you  now 
grant  as  evidence  of  your  affection  are  favours  indeed;  yet, 
when  the  ceremony  is  once  past,  what  will  now  be  received  with 
rapture  will  then  be  attributed  to  duty. 

JONATHAN.   Well,  and  what  was  the  consequence? 

JESSAMY.  The  consequence! — Ah!  forgive  me,  my  dear  friend, 
but  you  New-England  gentlemen  have  such  a  laudable  curiosity' 
of  seeing  the  bottom  of  everything; — why,  to  be  honest,  I  con,- 


The  Contrast  469 

fess  I  saw  the  blooming  cherub  of  a  consequence  smiling  in  its 
angelic  mother's  arms,  about  ten  months  afterwards. 

JONATHAN.  Well,  if  I  follow  all  your  plans,  make  them  six 
bows,  and  all  that,  shall  I  have  such  little  cherubim  consequen 
ces? 

JESSAMY.   Undoubtedly. — What  are  you  musing  upon? 

JONATHAN.  You  say  you'll  certainly  make  me  acquainted? — 
Why,  I  was  thinking  then  how  I  should  contrive  to  pass  this 
broken  piece  of  silver — won't  it  buy  a  sugar-dram? 

JESSAMY.  What  is  that,  the  love-token  from  the  deacon's 
daughter? — You  come  on  bravely.  But  I  must  hasten  to  my 
master.  Adieu,  my  dear  friend. 

JONATHAN.  Stay,  Mr.  Jessamy — must  I  buss  her  when  I  am 
introduced  to  her? 

JESSAMY.    I  told  you,  you  must  kiss  her. 

JONATHAN.  Well,  but  must  I  buss  her? 

JESSAMY.   Why  kiss  and  buss,  and  buss  and  kiss,  is  all  one. 

JONATHAN.  Oh!  my  dear  friend,  though  you  have  a  profound 
knowledge  of  all,  a  pugnency  of  tribulation,  you  don't  know 
everything.  [Exit. 

JESSAMY  [alone]. 

Well,  certainly  I  improve;  my  master  could  not  have  insinu 
ated  himself  with  more  address  into  the  heart  of  a  man  he 
despised.  Now  will  this  blundering  dog  sicken  Jenny  with  his 
nauseous  pawings,  until  she  flies  into  my  arms  for  very  ease. 
How  sweet  will  the  contrast  be  between  the  blundering  Jonathan 
and  the  courtly  and  accomplished  Jessamy ! 

End  of  the  Second  Act. 


ACT  III. 
SCENE  I.   DIMPLE'S  Room. 

DIMPLE  [discovered  at  a  toilet,  reading]. 

"Women  have  in  general  but  one  object,  which  is  their  beauty." 
Very  true,  my  lord;  positively  very  true.  "Nature  has  hardly 
formed  a  woman  ugly  enough  to  be  insensible  to  flattery  upon 
her  person."  Extremely  just,  my  lord;  every  day's  delightful 
experience  confirms  this.  "If  her  face  is  so  shocking  that  she 
must,  in  some  degree,  be  conscious  of  it,  her  figure  and  air, 


47°  Representative  Plays 

she  thinks,  make  ample  amends  for  it."  The  sallow  Miss  Wan 
is  a  proof  of  this.  Upon  my  telling  the  distasteful  wretch,  the 
other  day,  that  her  countenance  spoke  the  pensive  language 
of  sentiment,  and  that  Lady  Wortley  Montague  declared  that, 
if  the  ladies  were  arrayed  in  the  garb  of  innocence,  the  face 
would  be  the  last  part  which  would  be  admired,  as  Monsieur 
Milton  expresses  it,  she  grin'd  horribly  a  ghastly  smile.  "If 
her  figure  is  deformed,  she  thinks  her  face  counterbalances  it." 

Enter  JESSAMY  with  letters. 

DIMPLE.  Where  got  you  these,  Jessamy? 
JESSAMY.   Sir,  the  English  packet  is  arrived. 

DIMPLE  [opens  and  reads  a  letter  enclosing  notes}. 
"Sir, 

"I  have  drawn  bills  on  you  in  favour  of  Messrs.  Van  Cash  and  Co. 
as  per  margin.  I  have  taken  up  your  note  to  Col.  Piquet,  and  dis 
charged  your  debts  to  my  Lord  Lurcher  and  Sir  Harry  Rook.  I 
herewith  enclose  you  copies  of  the  bills,  which  I  have  no  doubt  will 
be  immediately  honoured.  On  failure,  I  shall  empower  some  lawyer 
in  your  country  to  recover  the  amounts. 
"I  am,  sir, 

"Your  most  humble  servant, 
"JOHN  HAZARD." 

Now,  did  not  my  lord  expressly  say  that  it  was  unbecoming 
a  well-bred  man  to  be  in  a  passion,  I  confess  I  should  be  ruffled. 
[Reads.]  "There  is  no  accident  so  unfortunate,  which  a  wise 
man  may  not  turn  to  his  advantage;  nor  any  accident  so  for 
tunate,  which  a  fool  will  not  turn  to  his  disadvantage."  True, 
my  lord;  but  how  advantage  can  be  derived  from  this  I  can't 
see.  Chesterfield  himself,  who  made,  however,  the  worst  prac 
tice  of  the  most  excellent  precepts,  was  never  in  so  embarrassing 
a  situation.  I  love  the  person  of  Charlotte,  and  it  is  necessary 
I  should  command  the  fortune  of  Letitia.  As  to  Maria! — I 
doubt  not  by  my  sang-froid  behaviour  I  shall  compel  her  to 
decline  the  match;  but  the  blame  must  not  fall  upon  me.  A 
prudent  man,  as  my  lord  says,  should  take  all  the  credit  of  a 
good  action  to  himself,  and  throw  the  discredit  of  a  bad  one 
upon  others.  I  must  break  with  Maria,  marry  Letitia,  and 
as  for  Charlotte — why,  Charlotte  must  be  a  companion  to  my 
wife.  — Here,  Jessamy! 


The  Contrast  471 

Enter  JESSAMY. 
DIMPLE  folds  and  seals  two  letters. 

DIMPLE.   Here,  Jessamy,  take  this  letter  to  my  love.  [Gives  one. 

JESSAMY.  To  which  of  your  honour's  loves? — Oh !  [Reading.  ] 
to  Miss  Letitia,  your  honour's  rich  love. 

DIMPLE.  And  this  [Delivers  another.]  to  Miss  Charlotte 
Manly.  See  that  you  deliver  them  privately. 

JESSAMY.   Yes,  your  honour.  [Going. 

DIMPLE.  Jessamy,  who  are  these  strange  lodgers  that  came 
to  the  house  last  night? 

JESSAMY.  Why,  the  master  is  a  Yankee  colonel;  I  have  not 
seen  much  of  him;  but  the  man  is  the  most  unpolished  animal 
your  honour  ever  disgraced  your  eyes  by  looking  upon.  I  have 
had  one  of  the  most  outre  conversations  with  him! — He  really 
has  a  most  prodigious  effect  upon  my  risibility. 

DIMPLE.  I  ought,  according  to  every  rule  of  Chesterfield,  to 
wait  on  him  and  insinuate  myself  into  his  good  graces. — Jes 
samy,  wait  on  the  Colonel  with  my  compliments,  and  if  he  is 
disengaged  I  will  do  myself  the  honour  of  paying  him  my  re 
spects. — Some  ignorant,  unpolished  boor — 

JESSAMY  goes  off  and  returns. 

JESSAMY.  Sir,  the  Colonel  is  gone  out,  and  Jonathan  his  ser 
vant  says  that  he  is  gone  to  stretch  his  legs  upon  the  Mall. — 
Stretch  his  legs!  what  an  indelicacy  of  diction! 

DIMPLE.  Very  well.  Reach  me  my  hat  and  sword.  I'll 
accost  him  there,  in  my  way  to  Letitia's,  as  by  accident; 
pretend  to  be  struck  with  his  person  and  address,  and  endeav 
our  to  steal  into  his  confidence.  Jessamy,  I  have  no  business 
for  you  at  present.  [Exit. 


JESSAMY  [taking  up  the  book]. 


\ 


My  master  and  I  obtain  our  knowledge  from  the  same  source; 
— though,  gad!  I  think  myself  much  the  prettier  fellow  of  the 
two.  [Surveying  himself  in  the  glass.]  That  was  a  brilliant 
thought,  to  insinuate  that  I  folded  my  master's  letters  for  him; 
the  folding  is  so  neat,  that  it  does  honour  to  the  operator.  I 
once  intended  to  have  insinuated  that  I  wrote  his  letters  too; 
but  that  was  before  I  saw  them;  it  won't  do  now:  no  honour 
there,  positively. — "Nothing  looks  more  vulgar  [Reading 


472  Representative  Plays 

affectedly.],  ordinary,  and  illiberal  than  ugly,  uneven,  and  ragged 
nails;  the  ends  of  which  should  be  kept  even  and  clean,  not 
tipped  with  black,  and  cut  in  small  segments  of  circles." — Seg 
ments  of  circles!  surely  my  lord  did  not  consider  that  he  wrote 
for  the  beaux.  Segments  of  circles!  what  a  crabbed  term!  Now 
I  dare  answer  that  my  master,  with  all  his  learning,  does  not 
know  that  this  means,  according  to  the  present  mode,  to  let  the 
nails  grow  long,  and  then  cut  them  off  even  at  top.  [Laughing 
without.}  Ha!  that's  Jenny's  titter.  I  protest  I  despair  of  ever 
teaching  that  girl  to  laugh;  she  has  something  so  execrably 
natural  in  her  laugh,  that  I  declare  it  absolutely  discomposes 
my  nerves.  How  came  she  into  our  house!  [Calls.]  Jenny! 

Enter  JENNY. 

JESSAMY.  Prythee,  Jenny,  don't  spoil  your  fine  face  with 
laughing. 

JENNY.  Why,  mustn't  I  laugh,  Mr.  Jessamy? 

JESSAMY.  You  may  smile;  but,  as  my  lord  says,  nothing  can 
authorize  a  laugh. 

JENNY.  Well,  but  I  can't  help  laughing. — Have  you  seen  him, 
Mr.  Jessamy?  ha,  ha,  ha! 

JESSAMY.   Seen  whom? 

JENNY.  Why,  Jonathan,  the  New-England  colonel's  servant. 
Do  you  know  he  was  at  the  play  last  night,  and  the  stupid  crea 
ture  don't  know  where  he  has  been.  He  would  not  go  to  a  play 
for  the  world;  he  thinks  it  was  a  show,  as  he  calls  it. 

JESSAMY.  As  ignorant  and  unpolished  as  he  is,  do  you  know, 
Miss  Jenny,  that  I  propose  to  introduce  him  to  the  honour  of 
your  acquaintance? 

JENNY.   Introduce  him  to  me!   for  what? 

JESSAMY.  Why,  my  lovely  girl,  that  you  may  take  him  under 
your  protection,  as  Madame  Rambotilliet  did  young  Stanhope; 
that  you  may,  by  your  plastic  hand,  mould  this  uncouth  cub  into 
a  gentleman.  He  is  to  make  love  to  you. 

JENNY.   Make  love  to  me! — 

JESSAMY.  Yes,  Mistress  Jenny,  make  love  to  you ;  and,  I  doubt 
not,  when  he  shall  become  domesticated  in  your  kitchen,  that  this 
boor,  under  your  auspices,  will  soon  become  un  amiable  petit 
Jonathan. 

JENNY.  I  must  say,  Mr.  Jessamy,  if  he  copies  after  me,  he  will 
be  vastly,  monstrously  polite. 


The  Contrast  473 

JESSAMY.  Stay  here  one  moment,  and  I  will  call  him. — 
Jonathan! — Mr.  Jonathan!  [Calls.] 

JONATHAN  [Within.].  Holla!  there. —  [Enters.]  You  promise 
to  stand  by  me — six  bows  you  say.  [Bows.] 

JESSAMY.  Mrs.  Jenny,  I  have  the  honour  of  presenting  Mr. 
Jonathan,  Colonel  Manly 's  waiter,  to  you.  I  am  extremely  happy 
that  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  make  two  worthy  people  acquainted 
with  each  other's  merits. 

JENNY.  So,  Mr.  Jonathan,  I  hear  you  were  at  the  play  last 
night. 

JONATHAN.  At  the  play!  why,  did  you  think  I  went  to  the 
devil's  drawing-room? 

JENNY.   The  devil's  drawing-room! 

JONATHAN.  Yes;  why  an't  cards  and  dice  the  devil's  device, 
and  the  play-house  the  shop  where  the  devil  hangs  out  the  vani 
ties  of  the  world  upon  the  tenter-hooks  of  temptation.  I  believe 
you  have  not  heard  how  they  were  acting  the  old  boy  one  night, 
and  the  wicked  one  came  among  them  sure  enough,  and  went 
right  off  in  a  storm,  and  carried  one  quarter  of  the  play-house  with 
him.  Oh!  no,  no,  no!  you  won't  catch  me  at  a  play-house,  I 
warrant  you. 

JENNY.  Well,  Mr.  Jonathan,  though  I  don't  scruple  your 
veracity,  I  have  some  reasons  for  believing  you  were  there;  pray, 
where  were  you  about  six  o'clock? 

JONATHAN.  Why,  I  went  to  see  one  Mr.  Morrison,  the  hocus- 
pocus  man;  they  said  as  how  he  could  eat  a  case  knife. 

JENNY.   Well,  and  how  did  you  find  the  place? 

JONATHAN.  As  I  was  going  about  here  and  there,  to  and  again, 
to  find  it,  I  saw  a  great  crowd  of  folks  going  into  a  long  entry  that 
had  lantherns  over  the  door ;  so  I  asked  a  man  whether  that  was 
not  the  place  where  they  played  hocus-pocus?  He  was  a  very  civil, 
kind  man,  though  he  did  speak  like  the  Hessians;  he  lifted  up 
his  eyes  and  said,  "They  play  hocus-pocus  tricks  enough  there, 
Got  knows,  mine  friend." 

JENNY.  Well — 

JONATHAN.  So  I  went  right  in,  and  they  shewed  me  away,  clean 
up  to  the  garret,  just  like  meeting-house  gallery.  And  so  I  saw 
a  power  of  topping  folks,  all  sitting  round  in  little  cabins,  "just 
like  father's  corn-cribs;"  and  then  there  was  such  a  squeaking 
with  the  fiddles,  and  such  a  tarnal  blaze  with  the  lights,  my  head 
was  near  turned.  At  last  the  people  that  sat  near  me  set  up  such 


474  Representative  Plays 

a  hissing — hiss — like  so  many  mad  cats;  and  then  they  went 
thump,  thump,  thump,  just  like  our  Peleg  threshing  wheat, 
and  stampt  away,  just  like  the  nation;  and  called  out  for  one 
Mr.  Langolee, — I  suppose  he  helps  act[s]  the  tricks. 

JENNY.   Well,  and  what  did  you  do  all  this  time? 

JONATHAN.  Gor,  I — I  liked  the  fun,  and  so  I  thumpt  away, 
and  hiss'd  as  lustily  as  the  best  of  'em.  One  sailor-looking  man 
that  sat  by  me,  seeing  me  stamp,  and  knowing  I  was  a  cute  fel 
low,  because  I  could  make  a  roaring  noise,  clapt  me  on  the 
shoulder  and  said,  "You  are  a  d d  hearty  cock,  smite  my  tim 
bers!"  I  told  him  so  I  was,  but  I  thought  he  need  not  swear  so, 
and  make  use  of  such  naughty  words. 

JESSAMY.  The  savage! — Well,  and  did  you  see  the  man  with 
his  tricks? 

JONATHAN.  Why,  I  vow,  as  I  was  looking  out  for  him,  they 
lifted  up  a  great  green  cloth  and  let  us  look  right  into  the  next 
neighbour's  house.  Have  you  a  good  many  houses  in  New- York 
made  so  in  that  'ere  way? 

JENNY.   Not  many;  but  did  you  see  the  family? 

JONATHAN.   Yes,  swamp  it;   I  see'd  the  family. 

JENNY.  Well,  and  how  did  you  like  them? 

JONATHAN.  Why,  I  vow  they  were  pretty  much  like  other 
families; — there  was  a  poor,  good-natured  curse  of  a  husband, 
and  a  sad  rantipole  of  a  wife. 

JENNY.   But  did  you  see  no  other  folks? 

JONATHAN.  Yes.  There  was  one  youngster;  they  called  him 
Mr.  Joseph;  he  talked  as  sober  and  as  pious  as  a  minister;  but, 
like  some  ministers  that  I  know,  he  was  a  sly  tike  in  his  heart  for 
all  that:  He  was  going  to  ask  a  young  woman  to  spark  it  with  him, 
and — the  Lord  have  mercy  on  my  soul! — she  was  another  man's 
wife. 

JESSAMY.  TheWabash! 

JENNY.  And  did  you  see  any  more  folks? 

JONATHAN.  Why,  they  came  on  as  thick  as  mustard.  For 
my  part,  I  thought  the  house  was  haunted.  There  was  a 
soldier  fellow,  who  talked  about  his  row  de  dow,  dow,  and 
courted  a  young  woman;  but,  of  all  the  cute  folk  I  saw, 
I  liked  one  little  fellow — 

JENNY.  Aye!  who  was  he? 

JONATHAN.  Why,  he  had  red  hair,  and  a  little  round  plump 
face  like  mine,  only  not  altogether  so  handsome.  His  name  was 


The  Contrast  475 

— Darby; — that  was  his  baptizing  name;  his  other  name  I  for 
got.  Oh!  it  was  Wig — Wag — Wag-all,  Darby  Wag-all, — pray, 
do  you  know  him?  — I  should  like  to  take  a  sling  with  him,  or  a 
drap  of  cyder  with  a  pepper-pod  in  it,  to  make  it  warm  and 
comfortable. 

JENNY.   I  can't  say  I  have  that  pleasure. 

JONATHAN.  I  wish  you  did;  he  is  a  cute  fellow.  But  there 
was  one  thing  I  didn't  like  in  that  Mr.  Darby;  and  that  was, 
he  was  afraid  of  some  of  them  'ere  shooting  irons,  such  as  your 
troopers  wear  on  training  days.  Now,  I'm  a  true  born  Yankee 
American  son  of  liberty,  and  I  never  was  afraid  of  a  gun  yet  in 
all  my  life. 

JENNY.  Well,  Mr.  Jonathan,  you  were  certainly  at  the  play 
house. 

JONATHAN.  I  at  the  play-house! — Why  didn't  I  see  the  play 
then? 

JENNY.   Why,  the  people  you  saw  were  players. 

JONATHAN.  Mercy  on  my  soul!  did  I  see  the  wicked  play 
ers? — Mayhap  that  'ere  Darby  that  I  liked  so  was  the  old  ser 
pent  himself,  and  had  his  cloven  foot  in  his  pocket.  Why,  I 
vow,  now  I  come  to  think  on't,  the  candles  seemed  to  burn 
blue,  and  I  am  sure  where  I  sat  it  smelt  tarnally  of  brimstone. 

JESSAMY.  Well,  Mr.  Jonathan,  from  your  account,  which  I 
confess  is  very  accurate,  you  must  have  been  at  the  play-house. 

JONATHAN.  Why,  I  vow,  I  began  to  smell  a  rat.  \Vhen  I 
came  away,  I  went  to  the  man  for  my  money  again;  you  want 
your  money?  says  he;  yes,  says  I;  for  what?  says  he;  why, 
says  I,  no  man  shall  jocky  me  out  of  my  money;  I  paid  my  m'oney 
to  see  sights,  and  the  dogs  a  bit  of  a  sight  have  I  seen,  unless  you 
call  listening  to  people's  private  business  a  sight.  Why,  says 
he,  it  is  the  School  for  Scandalization. — The  School  for  Scan- 
dalization ! — Oh !  ho !  no  wonder  you  New-York  folks  are  so  cute 
at  it,  when  you  go  to  school  to  learn  it ;  and  so  I  jogged  off. 

JESSAMY.  My  dear  Jenny,  my  master's  business  drags  me 
from  you ;  would  to  heaven  I  knew  no  other  servitude  than  to 
your  charms. 

JONATHAN.  Well,  but  don't  go;  you  won't  leave  me  so. — 

JESSAMY.  Excuse  me. — Remember  the  cash.  [Aside  to  him, 
and— Exit.] 

JENNY.   Mr.  Jonathan,  won't  you  please  to  sit  down.      Mr. 


476  Representative  Plays 

Jessamy  tells  me  you  wanted  to  have  some  conversation  with  me. 
[Having  brought  forward  two  chairs,  they  sit.  ] 

JONATHAN.   Ma'am! — 

JENNY.  Sir! — 

JONATHAN.   Ma'am! — 

JENNY.   Pray,  how  do  you  like  the  city,  sir? 

JONATHAN.   Ma'am! — 

JENNY.   I  say,  sir,  how  do  you  like  New- York? 

JONATHAN.    Ma'am! — 

JENNY.  The  stupid  creature!  but  I  must  pass  some  little  time 
with  him,  if  it  is  only  to  endeavour  to  learn  whether  it  was  his 
master  that  made  such  an  abrupt  entrance  into  our  house,  and 
my  young  mistress'  heart,  this  morning.  [Aside.]  As  you 
don't  seem  to  like  to  talk,  Mr.  Jonathan — do  you  sing? 

JONATHAN.  Gor,  I — I  am  glad  she  asked  that,  for  I  forgot  what 
Mr.  Jessamy  bid  me  say,  and  I  dare  as  well  be  hanged  as  act  what 
he  bid  me  do,  I'm  so  ashamed.  [Aside.]  Yes,  ma'am,  I  can  sing 
— I  can  sing  Mear,  Old  Hundred,  and  Bangor. 

JENNY.  Oh!  I  don't  mean  psalm  tunes.  Have  you  no  little 
song  to  please  the  ladies,  such  as  Roslin  Castle,  or  the  Maid  of  the 
Mill? . 

JONATHAN.  Why,  all  my  tunes  go  to  meeting  tunes,  save  one, 
and  I  count  you  won't  altogether  like  that  'ere. 

JENNY.    What  is  it  called? 

JONATHAN.  I  am  sure  you  have  heard  folks  talk  about  it;  it  is 
called  Yankee  Doodle. 

JENNY.  Oh !  it  is  the  tune  I  am  fond  of;  and,  if  I  know  anything 
of  my  mistress,  she  would  be  glad  to  dance  to  it.  Pray,  sing! 

JONATHAN  [sings]. 

Father  and  I  went  up  to  camp, 
Along  with  Captain  Goodwin; 
And  there  we  saw  the  men  and  boys, 
As  thick  as  hasty-pudding. 

Yankee  doodle  do,  &c. 

And  there  we  saw  a  swamping  gun, 
Big  as  log  of  maple, 
On  a  little  deuced  cart, 
A  load  for  father's  cattle. 

Yankee  doodle  do,  &c. 


The  Contrast  477 

And  every  time  they  fired  it  off 
It  took  a  horn  of  powder, 
It  made  a  noise — like  father's  gun, 
Only  a  nation  louder. 

Yankee  doodle  do,  &c. 

There  was  a  man  in  our  town, 
His  name  was — 

No,  no,  that  won't  do.  Now,  if  I  was  with  Tabitha  Wymen 
and  Jemima  Cawley  down  at  father  Chase's,  I  shouldn't  mind 
singing  this  all  out  before  them — you  would  be  affronted  if  I 
was  to  sing  that,  though  that's  a  lucky  thought;  if  you  should 
be  affronted,  I  have  something  dang'd  cute,  which  Jessamy  told 
me  to  say  to  you. 

JENNY.   Is  that  all !  I  assure  you  I  like  it  of  all  things. 

JONATHAN.  No,  no;  I  can  sing  more;  some  other  time,  when  you 
and  I  are  better  acquainted,  I'll  sing  the  whole  of  it — no,  no — 
that's  a  fib — I  can't  sing  but  a  hundred  and  ninety  verses:  our 
Tabitha  at  home  can  sing  it  all. — [Sings.] 

Marblehead's  a  rocky  place, 
And  Cape-Cod  is  sandy; 
Charlestown  is  burnt  down, 
Boston  is  the  dandy. 

Yankee  doodle,  doodle  do,  &c. 

I  vow,  my  own  town  song  has  put  me  into  such  topping  spirits 
that  I  believe  I'll  begin  to  do  a  little,  as  Jessamy  says  we  must 
when  we  go  a-courting. —  [Runs  and  kisses  her.]  Burning  rivers! 
cooling  flames!  red-hot  roses!  pig-nuts!  hasty-pudding  and 
ambrosia ! 

JENNY.  What  means  this  freedom?  you  insulting  wretch. 
[Strikes  him.] 

JONATHAN.  Are  you  affronted? 

JENNY.   Affronted !  with  what  looks  shall  I  express  my  anger? 

JONATHAN.  Looks !  why  as  to  the  matter  of  looks,  you  look  as 
cross  as  a  witch. 

JENNY.  Have  you  no  feeling  for  the  delicacy  of  my  sex? 

JONATHAN.  Feeling!  Gor,  I — I  feel  the  delicacy  of  your  sex 
pretty  smartly  [Rtibbing  his  cheek.],  though,  I  vow,  I  thought  when 
you  city  ladies  courted  and  married,  and  all  that,  you  put  feeling 
out  of  the  question.  But  I  want  to  know  whether  you  are  really 


478  Representative  Plays 

affronted,  or  only  pretend  to  be  so?  'Cause,  if  you  are  certainly 
right  down  affronted,  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  tether;  Jessamy 
didn't  tell  me  what  to  say  to  you. 

JENNY.  Pretend  to  be  affronted ! 

JONATHAN.  Aye,  aye,  if  you  only  pretend,  you  shall  hear  how 
I'll  go  to  work  to  make  cherubim  consequences.  [Runs  up  to  her.] 

JENNY.   Begone,  you  brute! 

JONATHAN.  That  looks  like  mad;  but  I  won't  lose  my  speech. 
My  dearest  Jenny — your  name  is  Jenny,  I  think? — My  dearest 
Jenny,  though  I  have  the  highest  esteem  for  the  sweet  favours  you 
have  just  now  granted  me — Gor,  that's  a  fib,  though;  but  Jessamy 
says  it  is  not  wicked  to  tell  lies  to  the  women.  [Aside.]  I  say, 
though  I  have  the  highest  esteem  for  the  favours  you  have  just 
now  granted  me,  yet  you  will  consider  that,  as  soon  as  the  dis 
solvable  knot  is  tied,  they  will  no  longer  be  favours,  but  only 
matters  of  duty  and  matters  of  course. 

JENNY.  Marry  you!  you  audacious  monster!  get  out  of  my 
sight,  or,  rather,  let  me  fly  from  you.  [Exit  hastily. 

JONATHAN.  Gor !  she's  gone  off  in  a  swinging  passion,  before  I 
had  time  to  think  of  consequences.  If  this  is  the  way  with  your 
city  ladies,  give  me  the  twenty  acres  of  rock,  the  bible,  the  cow, 
and  Tabitha,  and  a  little  peaceable  bundling. 

SCENE  II.    The  Mall. 
Enter  MANLY. 

It  must  be  so,  Montague!  and  it  is  not  all  the  tribe  of  Mande- 
/  villes  that  shall  convince  me  that  a  nation,  to  become  great, 
must  first  become  dissipated.  Luxury  is  surely  the  bane  of  a 
nation:  Luxury!  which  enervates  both  soul  and  body,  by 
opening  a  thousand  new  sources  of  enjoyment,  opens,  also,  a 
thousand  new  sources  of  contention  and  want:  Luxury!  which 
renders  a  people  weak  at  home,  and  accessible  to  bribery,  cor 
ruption,  and  force  from  abroad.  When  the  Grecian  states 
knew  no  other  tools  than  the  axe  and  the  saw,  the  Grecians  were 
a  great,  a  free,  and  a  happy  people.  The  kings  of  Greece  de 
voted  their  lives  to  the  service  of  their  country,  and  her  senators 
knew  no  other  superiority  over  their  fellow-citizens  than  a 
glorious  pre-eminence  in  danger  and  virtue.  They  exhibited  to 
the  world  a  noble  spectacle, — a  number  of  independent  states 
united  by  a  similarity  of  language,  sentiment,  manners,  common 


The  Contrast  479 

interest,  and  common  consent,  in  one  grand  mutual  league  of 
protection.  And,  thus  united,  long  might  they  have  continued 
the  cherishers  of  arts  and  sciences,  the  protectors  of  the  oppressed, 
the  scourge  of  tyrants,  and  the  safe  asylum  of  liberty.  But 
when  foreign  gold,  and  still  more  pernicious,  foreign  luxury  had 
crept  among  them,  they  sapped  the  vitals  of  their  virtue.  The 
virtues  of  their  ancestors  were  only  found  in  their  writings. 
Envy  and  suspicion,  the  vices  of  little  minds,  possessed  them. 
The  various  states  engendered  jealousies  of  each  other;  and, 
more  unfortunately,  growing  jealous  of  their  great  federal  coun 
cil,  the  Amphictyons,  they  forgot  that  their  common  safety  had 
existed,  and  would  exist,  in  giving  them  an  honourable  extensive 
prerogative.  The  common  good  was  lost  in  the  pursuit  of  private 
interest;  and  that  people  who,  by  uniting,  might  have  stood 
against  the  world  in  arms,  by  dividing,  crumbled  into  ruin; — 
their  name  is  now  only  known  in  the  page  of  the  historian,  and 
what  they  once  were  is  all  we  have  left  to  admire.  Oh!  that 
America!  Oh!  that  my  country,  would,  in  this  her  day,  learn 
the  things  which  belong  to  her  peace ! 

Enter  DIMPLE. 

DIMPLE.   You  are  Colonel  Manly,  I  presume? 

MANLY.  At  your  service,  sir. 

DIMPLE.  My  name  is  Dimple,  sir.  I  have  the  honour  to  be  a 
lodger  in  the  same  house  with  you,  and,  hearing  you  were  in  the 
Mall,  came  hither  to  take  the  liberty  of  joining  you. 

MANLY.  You  are  very  obliging,  sir. 

DIMPLE.  As  I  understand  you  are  a  stranger  here,  sir,  I  have 
taken  the  liberty  to  introduce  myself  to  your  acquaintance,  as 
possibly  I  may  have  it  in  my  power  to  point  out  some  things  in 
this  city  worthy  your  notice. 

MANLY.  An  attention  to  strangers  is  worthy  a  liberal  mind,  and 
must  ever  be  gratefully  received.  But  to  a  soldier,  who  has  no 
fixed  abode,  such  attentions  are  particularly  pleasing. 

DIMPLE.  Sir,  there  is  no  character  so  respectable  as  that  of  a 
soldier.  And,  indeed,  when  we  reflect  how  much  we  owe  to  those 
brave  men  who  have  suffered  so  much  in  the  service  of  their 
country,  and  secured  to  us  those  inestimable  blessings  that  we 
now  enjoy,  our  liberty  and  independence,  they  demand  every 
attention  which  gratitude  can  pay.  For  my  own  part,  I  never 
meet  an  officer,  but  I  embrace  him  as  my  friend,  nor  a  private  in 


480  Representative  Plays 

distress,  but  I  insensibly  extend  my  charity  to  him. — I  have  hit 
the  Bumkin  off  very  tolerably.  [Aside. 

MANLY.  Give  me  your  hand,  sir !  I  do  not  proffer  this  hand  to 
everybody;  but  you  steal  into  my  heart.  I  hope  I  am  as  insensi 
ble  to  flattery  as  most  men;  but  I  declare  (it  may  be  my  weak 
side)  that  I  never  hear  the  name  of  soldier  mentioned  with 
respect,  but  I  experience  a  thrill  of  pleasure  which  I  never  feel 
on  any  other  occasion. 

DIMPLE.  Will  you  give  me  leave,  my  dear  Colonel,  to  confer  an 
obligation  on  myself,  by  shewing  you  some  civilities  during  your 
stay  here,  and  giving  a  similar  opportunity  to  some  of  my  friends? 

MANLY.  Sir,  I  thank  you;  but  I  believe  my  stay  in  this  city 
will  be  very  short. 

DIMPLE.  I  can  introduce  you  to  some  men  of  excellent  sense, 
in  whose  company  you  will  esteem  yourself  happy;  and,  by  way 
of  amusement,  to  some  fine  girls,  who  will  listen  to  your  soft 
things  with  pleasure. 

MANLY.  Sir,  I  should  be  proud  of  the  honour  of  being  ac 
quainted  with  those  gentlemen; — but,  as  for  the  ladies,  I  don't 
:  understand  you. 

DIMPLE.  Why,  sir,  I  need  not  tell  you,  that  when  a  young 
gentleman  is  alone  with  a  young  lady  he  must  say  some  soft 
things  to  her  fair  cheek — indeed,  the  lady  will  expect  it.  To  be 
sure,  there  is  not  much  pleasure  when  a  man  of  the  world  and  a 
finished  coquette  meet,  who  perfectly  know  each  other;  but  how 
delicious  is  it  to  excite  the  emotions  of  joy,  hope,  expectation,  and 
delight  in  the  bosom  of  a  lovely  girl  who  believes  every  tittle  of 
what  you  say  to  be  serious! 

MANLY.  Serious,  sir!  In  my  opinion,  the  man  who,  under 
pretensions  of  marriage,  can  plant  thorns  in  the  bosom  of  an 
innocent,  unsuspecting  girl  is  more  detestable  than  a  common 
robber,  in  the  same  proportion  as  private  violence  is  more 
despicable  than  open  force,  and  money  of  less  value  than  hap 
piness. 

DIMPLE.  How  he  awes  me  by  the  superiority  of  his  sentiments. 
[Aside.  ]  As  you  say,  sir,  a  gentlemen  should  be  cautious  how  he 
mentions  marriage. 

MANLY.  Cautious,  sir!  [No  person  more  approves  of  an  inter 
course  between  the  sexes  than  I  do.  Female  conversation  softens 
our  manners,  whilst  our  discourse,  from  the  superiority  of  our 
literary  advantages,  improves  their  minds.  But,  in  our  young 


The  Contrast  481 

country,  where  there  is  no  such  thing  as  gallantry,  when  a  gentle 
man  speaks  of  love  to  a  lady,  whether  he  mentions  marriage  or 
not,  she  ought  to  conclude  either  that  he  meant  to  insult  her  or 
that  his  intentions  are  the  most  serious  and  honourable.]  How 
mean,  how  cruel,  is  it,  by  a  thousand  tender  assiduities,  to  win 
the  affections  of  an  amiable  girl,  and,  though  you  leave  her 
virtue  unspotted,  to  betray  her  into  the  appearance  of  so  many 
tender  partialities,  that  every  man  of  delicacy  would  suppress 
his  inclination  towards  her,  by  supposing  her  heart  engaged! 
Can  any  man,  for  the  trivial  gratification  of  his  leisure-hours, 
affect  the  happiness  of  a  whole  life!  His  not  having  spoken  of 
marriage  may  add  to  his  perfidy,  but  can  be  no  excuse  for  his 
conduct. 

DIMPLE.  Sir,  I  admire  your  sentiments; — they  are  mine.  The 
light  observations  that  fell  from  me  were  only  a  principle  of  the 
tongue;  they  came  not  from  the  heart;  my  practice  has  ever 
disapproved  these  principles. 

MANLY.  I  believe  you,  sir.  I  should  with  reluctance  suppose 
that  those  pernicious  sentiments  could  find  admittance  into  the 
heart  of  a  gentleman. 

DIMPLE.  I  am  now,  sir,  going  to  visit  a  family,  where,  if  you 
please,  I  will  have  the  honour  of  introducing  you.  Mr.  Manly's 
ward,  Miss  Letitia,  is  a  young  lady  of  immense  fortune;  and  his 
niece,  Miss  Charlotte  Manly,  is  a  young  lady  of  great  sprightliness 
and  beauty. 

MANLY.  That  gentleman,  sir,  is  my  uncle,  and  Miss  Manly  my 
sister. 

DIMPLE.  The  devil  she  is!  [Aside.]  Miss  Manly  your  sister,  sir? 
I  rejoice  to  hear  it,  and  feel  a  double  pleasure  in  being  known  to 
you. — Plague  on  him!  I  wish  he  was  at  Boston  again,  with  all 
my  soul.  [Aside.] 

MANLY.   Come,  sir,  will  you  go? 

DIMPLE.  I  will  follow  you  in  a  moment,  sir.  [Exit  MANLY.] 
Plague  on  it !  this  is  unlucky.  A  fighting  brother  is  a  cursed  appen 
dage  to  a  fine  girl.  Egad!  I  just  stopped  in  time;  had  he  not  dis 
covered  himself,  in  two  minutes  more  I  should  have  told  him  how 
well  I  was  with  his  sister.  Indeed,  I  cannot  see  the  satisfaction  of 
an  intrigue,  if  one  can't  have  the  pleasure  of  communicating  it 
to  our  friends.  [Exit. 

End  of  the  Third  Act. 


482  Representative  Plays 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.   CHARLOTTE'S  Apartment. 
CHARLOTTE  leading  in  MARIA. 

CHARLOTTE.  This  is  so  kind,  my  sweet  friend,  to  come  to  see  me 
at  this  moment.  I  declare,  if  I  were  going  to  be  married  in  a  few 
days,  as  you  are,  I  should  scarce  have  found  time  to  visit  my 
friends. 

MARIA.  Do  you  think,  then,  that  there  is  an  impropriety  in  it? 
— How  should  you  dispose  of  your  time? 

CHARLOTTE.  Why,  I  should  be  shut  up  in  my  chamber;  and  my 
head  would  so  run  upon — upon — upon  the  solemn  ceremony  that 
I  was  to  pass  through! — I  declare,  it  would  take  me  above  two 
hours  merely  to  learn  that  little  monosyllable — Yes. — Ah!  my 
dear,  your  sentimental  imagination  does  not  conceive  what  that 
little  tiny  word  implies. 

MARIA.  Spare  me  your  raillery,  my  sweet  friend ;  I  should  love 
your  agreeable  vivacity  at  any  other  time. 

CHARLOTTE.  Why,  this  is  the  very  time  to  amuse  you.  You 
grieve  me  to  see  you  look  so  unhappy. 

MARIA.  Have  I  not  reason  to  look  so? 

CHARLOTTE.   [What  new  grief  distresses  you? 

MARIA.  Oh !  how  sweet  it  is,  when  the  heart  is  borne  down  with 
misfortune,  to  recline  and  repose  on  the  bosom  of  friendship! 
Heaven  knows  that,  although  it  is  improper  for  a  young  lady 
to  praise  a  gentleman,  yet  I  have  ever  concealed  Mr.  Dimple's 
foibles,  and  spoke  of  him  as  of  one  whose  reputation  I  expected 
would  be  linked  with  mine:  but  his  late  conduct  towards  me  has 
turned  my  coolness  into  contempt.  He  behaves  as  if  he  meant 
to  insult  and  disgust  me;  whilst  my  father,  in  the  last  conver 
sation  on  the  subject  of  our  marriage,  spoke  of  it  as  a  matter 
which  laid  near  his  heart,  and  in  which  he  would  not  bear  contra 
diction. 

CHARLOTTE.  This  works  well :  oh !  the  generous  Dimple.  I'll  en 
deavour  to  excite  her  to  discharge  him.  [Aside.]  But,  my  dear 
friend,  your  happiness  depends  on  yourself.  Why  don't  you  dis 
card  him?  Though  the  match  has  been  of  long  standing,  I  would 
not  be  forced  to  make  myself  miserable:  no  parent  in  the  world 
should  oblige  me  to  marry  the  man  I  did  not  like. 

MARIA.  Oh !  my  dear,  you  never  lived  with  your  parents,  and  do 
not  know  what  influence  a  father's  frowns  have  upon  a  daughter' s 


The  Contrast  483 

heart.  Besides,  what  have  I  to  allege  against  Mr.  Dimple,  to 
justify  myself  to  the  world?  He  carries  himself  so  smoothly, 
that  every  one  would  impute  the  blame  to  me,  and  call  me 
capricious. 

CHARLOTTE.  And  call  her  capricious!  Did  ever  such  an  objec 
tion  start  into  the  heart  of  woman?  for  my  part,  I  wish  I  had  fifty 
lovers  to  discard,  for  no  other  reason  than  because  I  did  not  fancy 
them.]  My  dear  Maria,  you  will  forgive  me;  I  know  your  can 
dour  and  confidence  in  me;  but  I  have  at  times,  I  confess,  been 
led  to  suppose  that  some  other  gentleman  was  the  cause  of  your 
aversion  to  Mr.  Dimple. 

MARIA.  No,  my  sweet  friend,  you  may  be  assured,  that  though 
I  have  seen  many  gentlemen  I  could  prefer  to  Mr.  Dimple,  yet  I 
never  saw  one  that  I  thought  I  could  give  my  hand  to,  until  this 
morning. 

CHARLOTTE.  This  morning! 

MARIA.  Yes;  one  of  the  strangest  accidents  in  the  world.  The 
odious  Dimple,  after  disgusting  me  with  his  conversation,  had  just 
left  me,  when  a  gentleman,  who,  it  seems,  boards  in  the  same 
house  with  him,  saw  him  coming  out  of  our  door,  and,  the 
houses  looking  very  much  alike,  he  came  into  our  house  instead  of 
his  lodgings;  nor  did  he  discover  his  mistake  until  he  got  into  the 
parlour,  where  I  was:  he  then  bowed  so  gracefully,  made  such 
a  genteel  apology,  and  looked  so  manly  and  noble! — 

CHARLOTTE.  I  see  some  folks,  though  it  is  so  great  an  impropri 
ety,  can  praise  a  gentleman,  when  he  happens  to  be  the  man  of 
their  fancy.  [Aside.] 

MARIA.  I  don't  know  how  it  was, — I  hope  he  did  not  think  me 
indelicate, — but  I  asked  him,  I  believe,  to  sit  down,  or  pointed  to 
a  chair.    He  sat  down,  and,  instead  of  having  recourse  to  obser-  , 
vations  upon  the  weather,  or  hackneyed  criticisms  upon  the  , 
theatre,  he  entered  readily  into  a  conversation  worthy  a  man  of 
sense  to  speak,  and  a  lady  of  delicacy  and  sentiment  to  hear. 
He  was  not  strictly  handsome,  but  he  spoke  the  language  of 
sentiment,  and  his  eyes  looked  tenderness  and  honour. 

CHARLOTTE.  Oh!  [Eagerly.]  you  sentimental,  grave  girls,  when 
your  hearts  are  once  touched,  beat  us  rattles  a  bar's  length.  And 
so  you  are  quite  in  love  with  this  he-angel? 

MARIA.  In  love  with  him!  How  can  you  rattle  so,  Charlotte? 
Am  I  not  going  to  be  miserable?  [Sighs.]  In  love  with  a  gentleman 
I  never  saw  but  one  hour  in  my  life,  and  don't  know  his  name! 


484  Representative  Plays 

No;  I  only  wished  that  the  man  I  shall  marry  may  look,  and 
talk,  and  act,  just  like  him.  Besides,  my  dear,  he  is  a  married 
man. 

CHARLOTTE.  Why,  that  was  good-natured. — He  told  you  so,  I 
suppose,  in  mere  charity,  to  prevent  you  falling  in  love  with 
him? 

MARIA.  He  didn't  tell  me  so;  [Peevishly.]  he  looked  as  if  he  was 
married. 

CHARLOTTE.   How,  my  dear;  did  he  look  sheepish? 

MARIA.  I  am  sure  he  has  a  susceptible  heart,  and  the  ladies  of 
his  acquaintance  must  be  very  stupid  not  to — 

CHARLOTTE.    Hush !  I  hear  some  person  coming. 

[Enter  LETITIA. 

LETITIA.  My  dear  Maria,  I  am  happy  to  see  you.  Lud!  what 
a  pity  it  is  that  you  have  purchased  your  wedding  clothes. 

MARIA.    I  think  so.   [Sighing.] 

LETITIA.  Why,  my  dear,  there  is  the  sweetest  parcel  of  silks 
come  over  you  ever  saw!  Nancy  Brilliant  has  a  full  suit  come;  she 
sent  over  her  measure,  and  it  fits  her  to  a  hair;  it  is  immensely 
dressy,  and  made  for  a  court- hoop.  I  thought  they  said  the 
large  hoops  were  going  out  of  fashion. 

CHARLOTTE.  Did  you  see  the  hat?  Is  it  a  fact  that  the  deep 
laces  round  the  border  is  still  the  fashion?] 

DIMPLE  [within].   Upon  my  honour,  sir. 

MARIA.  Ha!  Dimple's  voice!  My  dear,  I  must  take  leave  of  you. 
There  are  some  things  necessary  to  be  done  at  our  house.  Can't 
I  go  through  the  other  room? 

Enter  DIMPLE  and  MANLY. 

DIMPLE.  Ladies,  your  most  obedient. 

CHARLOTTE.  Miss  Van  Rough,  shall  I  present  my  brother 
Henry  to  you?  Colonel  Manly,  Maria — Miss  Van  Rough,  brother. 

MARIA.  Her  brother!  [Turns  and  sees  MANLY.]  Oh!  my  heart! 
the  very  gentleman  I  have  been  praising. 

MANLY.   The  same  amiable  girl  I  saw  this  morning! 

CHARLOTTE.  Why,  you  look  as  if  you  were  acquainted. 

MANLY.  I  unintentionally  intruded  into  this  lady's  presence 
this  morning,  for  which  she  was  so  good  as  to  promise  me  her  for 
giveness. 


The  Contrast  485 

CHARLOTTE.  Oh !  ho !  is  that  the  case !  Have  these  two  penso- 
rosos  been  together?  Were  they  Henry's  eyes  that  looked  so  tender 
ly?  [Aside.]  And  so  you  promised  to  pardon  him?  and  could  you 
be  so  good-natured? — have  you  really  forgiven  him?  I  beg  you 
would  do  it  for  my  sake  [Whispering  loud  to  MARIA.].  But,  my 
dear,  as  you  are  in  such  haste,  it  would  be  cruel  to  detain  you; 
I  can  show  you  the  way  through  the  other  room. 

MARIA.   Spare  me,  my  sprightly  friend. 

MANLY.  The  lady  does  not,  I  hope,  intend  to  deprive  us  of  the 
pleasure  of  her  company  so  soon. 

CHARLOTTE.  She  has  only  a  mantua-maker  who  waits  for  her  at 
home.  But,  as  I  am  to  give  my  opinion  of  the  dress,  I  think  she 
cannot  go  yet.  We  were  talking  of  the  fashions  when  you  came  in, 
but  I  suppose  the  subject  must  be  changed  to  something  of  more 
importance  now. — Mr.  Dimple,  will  you  favour  us  with  an  account 
of  the  public  entertainments? 

DIMPLE.  Why,  really,  Miss  Manly,  you  could  not  have  asked 
me  a  question  more  mal-apropos.  For  my  part,  I  must  confess 
that,  to  a  man  who  has  traveled,  there  is  nothing  that  is  worthy 
the  name  of  amusement  to  be  found  in  this  city. 

CHARLOTTE.   Except  visiting  the  ladies. 

DIMPLE.  Pardon  me,  madam ;  that  is  the  avocation  of  a  man  of 
taste.  But  for  amusement,  I  positively  know  of  nothing  that  can 
be  called  so,  unless  you  dignify  with  that  title  the  hopping  once  a 
fortnight  to  the  sound  of  two  or  three  squeaking  fiddles,  and  the 
clattering  of  the  old  tavern  windows,  or  sitting  to  see  the  miser 
able  mummers,  whom  you  call  actors,  murder  comedy  and  make 
a  farce  of  tragedy. 

MANLY.   Do  you  never  attend  the  theatre,  sir? 

DIMPLE.    I  was  tortured  there  once. 

CHARLOTTE.  Pray,  Mr.  Dimple,  was  it  a  tragedy  or  a  comedy? 

DIMPLE.  Faith,  madam,  I  cannot  tell ;  for  I  sat  with  my  back  to 
the  stage  all  the  time,  admiring  a  much  better  actress  than  any 
there — a  lady  who  played  the  fine  woman  to  perfection;  though, 
by  the  laugh  of  the  horrid  creatures  round  me,  I  suppose  it  was 
comedy.  Yet,  on  second  thoughts,  it  might  be  some  hero  in  a 
tragedy,  dying  so  comically  as  to  set  the  whole  house  in  an 
uproar. — Colonel,  I  presume  you  have  been  in  Europe? 

MANLY.  Indeed,  sir,  I  was  never  ten  leagues  from  the  continent. 

DIMPLE.  Believe  me,  Colonel,  you  have  an  immense  pleasure  to 
come;  and  when  you  shall  have  seen  the  brilliant  exhibitions  of 


486  Representative  Plays 

Europe,  you  will  learn  to  despise  the  amusements  of  this  country 
as  much  as  I  do. 

i  MANLY.  Therefore  I  do  not  wish  to  see  them;  for  I  can  never 
esteem  that  knowledge  valuable  which  tends  to  give  me  a  distaste 
for  my  native  country. 

DIMPLE.  Well,  Colonel,  though  you  have  not  travelled,  you  have 
read. 

MANLY.  I  have,  a  little,  and  by  it  have  discovered  that  there  is 
a  laudable  partiality  which  ignorant,  untravelled  men  entertain 
for  everything  that  belongs  to  their  native  country.  I  call  it 
laudable;  it  injures  no  one;  adds  to  their  own  happiness;  and, 
when  extended,  becomes  the  noble  principle  of  patriotism. 
Travelled  gentlemen  rise  superior,  in  their  own  opinion,  to  this: 
but  if  the  contempt  which  they  contract  for  their  country  is 
the  most  valuable  acquisition  of  their  travels,  I  am  far  from 
thinking  that  their  time  and  money  are  well  spent. 

MARIA.   What  noble  sentiments! 

CHARLOTTE.  Let  my  brother  set  out  from  where  he  will  in  the 
fields  of  conversation,  he  is  sure  to  end  his  tour  in  the  temple  of 
gravity. 

MANLY.  Forgive  me,  my  sister.     I  love  my  country;  it  has  its 
foibles  undoubtedly; — some  foreigners  will  with  pleasure  remark 
'  them — but  such  remarks  fall  very  ungracefully  from  the  lips  of  her 
citizens. 

DIMPLE.  You  are  perfectly  in  the  right,  Colonel — America  has 
her  faults. 

MANLY.  Yes,  sir;  and  we,  her  children,  should  blush  for  them  in 
private,  and  endeavour,  as  individuals,  to  reform  them.  But, 
if  our  country  has  its  errors  in  common  with  other  countries,  I 
am  proud  to  say  America — I  mean  the  United  States — have 
displayed  virtues  and  achievements  which  modern  nations  may 
admire,  but  of  which  they  have  seldom  set  us  the  example. 

CHARLOTTE.  But,  brother,  we  must  introduce  you  to  some  of 
our  gay  folks,  and  let  you  see  the  city,  such  as  it  is.  Mr.  Dimple 
is  known  to  almost  every  family  in  town;  he  will  doubtless  take 
a  pleasure  in  introducing  you. 

DIMPLE.  I  shall  esteem  every  service  I  can  render  your  brother 
an  honour. 

MANLY.  I  fear  the  business  I  am  upon  will  take  up  all  my  time, 
and  my  family  will  be  anxious  to  hear  from  me. 


The  Contrast  487 

MARIA.  His  family!  But  what  is  it  to  me  that  he  is  married! 
[Aside.]  Pray,  how  did  you  leave  your  lady,  sir? 

CHARLOTTE.  My  brother  is  not  married  [Observing  her  anxiety.] ; 
it  is  only  an  odd  way  he  has  of  expressing  himself.  Pray,  brother, 
is  this  business,  which  you  make  your  continual  excuse,  a  secret? 

MANLY.  No,  sister;  I  came  hither  to  solicit  the  honourable  Con 
gress,  that  a  number  of  my  brave  old  soldiers  may  be  put  upon  the 
pension-list,  who  were,  at  first,  not  judged  to  be  so  materially 
wounded  as  to  need  the  public  assistance.  My  sister  says  true 
[To  MARIA.]:  I  call  my  late  soldiers  my  family.  Those  who 
were  not  in  the  field  in  the  late  glorious  contest,  and  those  who 
were,  have  their  respective  merits;  but,  I  confess,  my  old  brother- 
soldiers  are  dearer  to  me  than  the  former  description.  Friend 
ships  made  in  adversity  are  lasting;  our  countrymen  may  forget 
us,  but  that  is  no  reason  why  we  should  forget  one  another.  But 
I  must  leave  you ;  my  time  of  engagement  approaches. 

CHARLOTTE.  Well,  but,  brother,  if  you  will  go,  will  you  please 
to  conduct  my  fair  friend  home?  You  live  in  the  same  street — I 
was  to  have  gone  with  her  myself — [Aside.]  A  lucky  thought. 

MARIA.  I  am  obliged  to  your  sister,  sir,  and  was  just  intending 
to  go.  [Going. 

MANLY.    I  shall  attend  her  with  pleasure.     [Exit  with  MARIA, 
followed  by  DIMPLE  and  CHARLOTTE.] 

MARIA.    Now,  pray,  don't  betray  me  to  your  brother. 

[CHARLOTTE.  [Just  as  she  sees  him  make  a  motion  to  take  his 
leave.]  One  word  with  you,  brother,  if  you  please. 

[Follows  them  out. 

Manent  DIMPLE  and  LETITIA. 

DIMPLE.  You  received  the  billet  I  sent  you,  I  presume? 
LETITIA.  Hush! — Yes. 

DIMPLE.  When  shall  I  pay  my  respects  to  you? 
LETITIA.  At  eight  I  shall  be  unengaged. 

Re-enter  CHARLOTTE. 

DIMPLE.   Did  my  lovely  angel  receive  my  billet? 

[To  CHARLOTTE. 
CHARLOTTE.   Yes. 

DIMPLE.   What  hour  shall  I  expect  with  impatience? 
CHARLOTTE.  At  eight  I  shall  be  at  home  unengaged. 


488  Representative  Plays 

DIMPLE.  Unfortunately!  I  have  a  horrid  engagement  of  busi 
ness  at  that  hour.  Can't  you  finish  your  visit  earlier,  and  let  six 
be  the  happy  hour? 

CHARLOTTE.   You  know  your  influence  over  me.] 

[Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II.   VAN  ROUGH'S  House. 
VAN  ROUGH  [alone]. 

It  cannot  possibly  be  true!  The  son  of  my  old  friend  can't 
have  acted  so  unadvisedly.  Seventeen  thousand  pounds!  in 
bills!  Mr.  Transfer  must  have  been  mistaken.  He  always 
appeared  so  prudent,  and  talked  so  well  upon  money-matters, 
and  even  assured  me  that  he  intended  to  change  his  dress  for 
a  suit  of  clothes  which  would  not  cost  so  much,  and  look  more 
substantial,  as  soon  as  he  married.  No,  no,  no!  it  can't  be;  it 
cannot  be.  But,  however,  I  must  look  out  sharp.  I  did  not 
care  what  his  principles  or  his  actions  were,  so  long  as  he  minded 
the  main  chance.  Seventeen  thousand  pounds !  If  he  had  lost  it 
in  trade,  why  the  best  men  may  have  ill-luck;  but  to  game  it 
away,  as  Transfer  says — why,  at  this  rate,  his  whole  estate  may 
go  in  one  night,  and,  what  is  ten  times  worse,  mine  into  the  bar 
gain.  No,  no;  Mary  is  right.  Leave  women  to  look  out  in  these 
matters;  for  all  they  look  as  if  they  didn't  know  a  journal  from 
a  ledger,  when  their  interest  is  concerned  they  know  what's  what ; 
they  mind  the  main  chance  as  well  as  the  best  of  us — I  wonder 
Mary  did  not  tell  me  she  knew  of  his  spending  his  money  so 
f  foolishly.  Seventeen  thousand  pounds!  Why,  if  my  daughter 
!  was  standing  up  to  be  married,  I  would  forbid  the  banns,  if  I 
found  it  was  to  a  man  who  did  not  mind  the  main  chance. — 
Hush!  I  hear  somebody  coming.  Tis  Mary's  voice:  a  man 
with  her  too!  I  shou'dn't  be  surprised  if  this  should  be  the  other 
string  to  her  bow.  Aye,  aye,  let  them  alone;  women  understand 
the  main  chance. — Though,  i'  faith,  I'll  listen  a  little. 

[Retires  into  a  closet. 

MANLY  leading  in  MARIA. 

MANLY.  I  hope  you  will  excuse  my  speaking  upon  so  important 
a  subject  so  abruptly;  but,  the  moment  I  entered  your  room,  you 
struck  me  as  the  lady  whom  I  had  long  loved  in  imagination,  and 
never  hoped  to  see. 


The  Contrast  489 

MARIA.  Indeed,  sir,  I  have  been  led  to  hear  more  upon  this 
subject  than  I  ought. 

MANLY.  Do  you,  then,  disapprove  my  suit,  madam,  or  the 
abruptness  of  my  introducing  it?  If  the  latter,  my  peculiar  situ 
ation,  being  obliged  to  leave  the  city  in  a  few  days,  will,  I  hope,  be 
my  excuse;  if  the  former,  I  will  retire,  for  I  am  sure  I  would  not 
give  a  moment's  inquietude  to  her  whom  I  could  devote  my  life  to 
please.  I  am  not  so  indelicate  as  to  seek  your  immediate  appro 
bation;  permit  me  only  to  be  near  you,  and  by  a  thousand 
tender  assiduities  to  endeavour  to  excite  a  grateful  return. 

MARIA.  I  have  a  father,  whom  I  would  die  to  make  happy; 
he  will  disapprove — 

MANLY.  Do  you  think  me  so  ungenerous  as  to  seek  a  place 
in  your  esteem  without  his  consent?  You  must — you  ever 
ought  to  consider  that  man  as  unworthy  of  you  who  seeks  an 
interest  in  your  heart,  contrary  to  a  father's  approbation.  A 
young  lady  should  reflect  that  the  loss  of  a  lover  may  be  supplied, 
but  nothing  can  compensate  for  the  loss  of  a  parent's  affection. 
Yet,  why  do  you  suppose  your  father  would  disapprove?  In  our 
country,  the  affections  are  not  sacrificed  to  riches  or  family- 
aggrandizement:  should  you  approve,  my  family  is  decent,  and 
my  rank  honourable. 

MARIA.   You  distress  me,  sir. 

MANLY.  Then  I  will  sincerely  beg  your  excuse  for  obtrud 
ing  so  disagreeable  a  subject,  and  retire.  [Going. 

MARIA.  Stay,  sir!  your  generosity  and  good  opinion  of  me 
deserve  a  return;  but  why  must  I  declare  what,  for  these  few 
hours,  I  have  scarce  suffered  myself  to  think? — I  am — 

MANLY.   What? 

MARIA.  Engaged,  sir;  and,  in  a  few  days,  to  be  married  to 
the  gentleman  you  saw  at  your  sister's. 

MANLY.  Engaged  to  be  married!  And  have  I  been  basely 
invading  the  rights  of  another?  Why  have  you  permitted  this? 
Is  this  the  return  for  the  partiality  I  declared  for  you? 

MARIA.  You  distress  me,  sir.  What  would  you  have  me  say? 
You  are  too  generous  to  wish  the  truth.  Ought  I  to  say  that  I 
dared  not  suffer  myself  to  think  of  my  engagement,  and  that  I 
am  going  to  give  my  hand  without  my  heart?  Would  you  have 
me  confess  a  partiality  for  you?  If  so,  your  triumph  is  complete, 
and  can  be  only  more  so  when  days  of  misery  with  the  man  I 
cannot  love  will  make  me  think  of  him  whom  I  prefer. 


490  Representative  Plays 

MANLY.  [After  a  pause.].  We  are  both  unhappy;  but  it  is  your 
duty  to  obey  your  parent — mine  to  obey  my  honour.  Let  us, 
therefore,  both  follow  the  path  of  rectitude;  and  of  this  we 
may  be  assured,  that  if  we  are  not  happy,  we  shall,  at  least, 
deserve  to  be  so.  Adieu !  I  dare  not  trust  myself  longer  with 
you.  [Exeunt  severally. 

End  of  the  Fourth  Act. 


ACT  V. 
SCENE  I.   DIMPLE'S  Lodgings. 

JESSAMY  [meeting  JONATHAN]. 

Well,  Mr.  Jonathan,  what  success  with  the  fair? 

JONATHAN.  Why,  such  a  tarnal  cross  tike  you  never  saw! 
You  would  have  counted  she  had  lived  upon  crab-apples  and 
vinegar  for  a  fortnight.  But  what  the  rattle  makes  you  look 
so  tarnation  glum? 

JESSAMY.  I  was  thinking,  Mr.  Jonathan,  what  could  be  the 
reason  of  her  carrying  herself  so  coolly  to  you. 

JONATHAN.  Coolly,  do  you  call  it?    Why,  I  vow,  she  was  fire- 
hot  angry:  may  be  it  was  because  I  buss'd  her. 
•    JESSAMY.   No,  no,  Mr.  Jonathan;    there  must  be  some  other 
cause:  I  never  yet  knew  a  lady  angry  at  being  kissed. 

JONATHAN.  Well,  if  it  is  not  the  young  woman's  bashfulness, 
I  vow  I  can't  conceive  why  she  shou'dn't  like  me. 

JESSAMY.  May  be  it  is  because  you  have  not  the  graces, 
Mr.  Jonathan. 

JONATHAN.  Grace!  Why,  does  the  young  woman  expect  I 
must  be  converted  before  I  court  her? 

JESSAMY.  I  mean  graces  of  person:  for  instance,  my  lord 
tells  us  that  we  must  cut  off  our  nails  even  at  top,  in  small  seg 
ments  of  circles — though  you  won't  understand  that — In  the 
next  place,  you  must  regulate  your  laugh. 

JONATHAN.   Maple-log  seize  it!  don't  I  laugh  natural? 

JESSAMY.  That's  the  very  fault,  Mr.  Jonathan.  Besides,  you 
absolutely  misplace  it.  I  was  told  by  a  friend  of  mine  that  you 
laughed  outright  at  the  play  the  other  night,  when  you  ought 
only  to  have  tittered. 


The  Contrast  491 

JONATHAN.  Gor !  I — what  does  one  go  to  see  fun  for  if  they 
can't  laugh? 

JESSAMY.   You  may  laugh;  but  you  must  laugh  by  rule. 

JONATHAN.  Swamp  it — laugh  by  rule!  Well,  I  should  like 
that  tarnally. 

JESSAMY.  Why,  you  know,  Mr.  Jonathan,  that  to  dance,  a 
lady  to  play  with  her  fan,  or  a  gentleman  with  his  cane,  and  all 
other  natural  motions,  are  regulated  by  art.  My  master  has 
composed  an  immensely  pretty  gamut,  by  which  any  lady  or 
gentleman,  with  a  few  years'  close  application,  may  learn  to 
laugh  as  gracefully  as  if  they  were  born  and  bred  to  it. 

JONATHAN.  Mercy  on  my  soul!  A  gamut  for  laughing — just 
like  fa,  la,  sol? 

JESSAMY.  Yes.  It  comprises  every  possible  display  of  jocu 
larity,  from  an  affettuoso  smile  to  a  piano  titter,  or  full  chorus 
fortissimo  ha,  ha,  ha!  My  master  employs  his  leisure-hours  in 
marking  out  the  plays,  like  a  cathedral  chanting-book,  that  the 
ignorant  may  know  where  to  laugh;  and  that  pit,  box,  and 
gallery  may  keep  time  together,  and  not  have  a  snigger  in  one 

part  of  the  house,  a  broad  grin  in  the  other,  and  a  d d  grum 

look  in  the  third.  How  delightful  to  see  the  audience  all  smile 
together,  then  look  on  their  books,  then  twist  their  mouths  into 
an  agreeable  simper,  then  altogether  shake  the  house  withj  a 
general  ha,  ha,  ha!  loud  as  a  full  chorus  of  Handel's  at  an 
Abbey-commemoration. 

JONATHAN.   Ha,  ha,  ha!  that's  dang'd  cute,  I  swear. 

JESSAMY.  The  gentlemen,  you  see,  will  laugh  the  tenor;  the 
ladies  will  play  the  counter-tenor;  the  beaux  will  squeak  the 
treble;  and  our  jolly  friends  in  the  gallery  a  thorough  bass,  ho, 
ho,  ho! 

JONATHAN.   Well,  can't  you  let  me  see  that  gamut? 

JESSAMY.  Oh!  yes,  Mr.  Jonathan;  here  it  is.  [Takes  out  a 
book.  ]  Oh!  no,  this  is  only  a  titter  with  its  variations.  Ah,  here 
it  is.  [Takes  out  another.]  Now,  you  must  know,  Mr.  Jonathan, 
this  is  a  piece  written  by  Ben  Johnson  [sic],  which  I  have  set  to 
my  master's  gamut.  The  places  where  you  must  smile,  look 
grave,  or  laugh  outright,  are  marked  below  the  line.  Now  look 
over  me.  "There  was  a  certain  man" — now  you  must  smile. 

JONATHAN.   Well,  read  it  again;   I  warrant  I'll  mind  my  eye. 

JESSAMY.  "There  was  a  certain  man,  who  had  a  sad  scolding 
wife," — now  you  must  laugh. 


492  Representative  Plays 

JONATHAN.   Tarnation !   That's  no  laughing  matter  though. 

JESSAMY.    "And  she  lay  sick  a-dying;" — now  you  must  titter. 

JONATHAN.  What,  snigger  when  the  good  woman's  a-dying! 
Gor,  I— 

JESSAMY.  Yes,  the  notes  say  you  must — "And  she  asked  her 
husband  leave  to  make  a  will," — now  you  must  begin  to  look 
grave; — "and  her  husband  said" — 

JONATHAN.  Aye,  what  did  her  husband  say? — Something  dang'd 
cute,  I  reckon. 

JESSAMY.  "And  her  husband  said,  you  have  had  your  will  all 
your  life-time,  and  would  you  have  it  after  you  are  dead,  too?" 

JONATHAN.  Ho,  ho,  ho!  There  the  old  man  was  even  with  her; 
he  was  up  to  the  notch — ha,  ha,  ha ! 

JESSAMY.  But,  Mr.  Jonathan,  you  must  not  laugh  so.  Why, 
you  ought  to  have  tittered  piano,  and  you  have  laughed  fortissimo. 
Look  here;  you  see  these  marks,  A,  B,  C,  and  so  on;  these  are  the 
references  to  the  other  part  of  the  book.  Let  us  turn  to  it,  and 
you  will  see  the  directions  how  to  manage  the  muscles.  This 
[Turns  over.}  was  note  D  you  blundered  at. — "You  must  purse 
the  mouth  into  a  smile,  then  titter,  discovering  the  lower  part 
of  the  three  front  upper  teeth." 

JONATHAN.  How?  read  it  again. 

JESSAMY.  "There  was  a  certain  man" — very  well! — "who  had 
a  sad  scolding  wife," — why  don't  you  laugh? 

JONATHAN.  Now,  that  scolding  wife  sticks  in  my  gizzard  so 
pluckily  that  I  can't  laugh  for  the  blood  and  nowns  of  me.  Let 
me  look  grave  here,  and  I'll  laugh  your  belly  full,  where  the  old 
creature's  a-dying. 

JESSAMY.  "And  she  asked  her  husband" —  [Bell  rings.}  My 
master's  bell!  he's  returned,  I  fear. — Here,  Mr.  Jonathan,  take 
this  gamut;  and  1  make  no  doubt  but  with  a  few  years'  close  ap 
plication,  you  may  be  able  to  smile  gracefully.  [Exeunt  severally. 


SCENE  II.   CHARLOTTE'S  Apartment. 
Enter  MANLY. 

MANLY.  What,  no  one  at  home?  How  unfortunate  to  meet  the 
only  lady  my  heart  was  ever  moved  by,  to -find  her  engaged  to  an 
other,  and  confessing  her  partiality  for  me!  Yet  engaged  to  a  man 
who,  by  her  intimation,  and  his  libertine  conversation  with  me, 


The  Contrast  493 

I  fear,  does  not  merit  her.  Aye!  there's  the  sting;  for,  were  I 
assured  that  Maria  was  happy,  my  heart  is  not  so  selfish  but 
that  it  would  dilate  in  knowing  it,  even  though  it  were  with 
another.  But  to  know  she  is  unhappy! — I  must  drive  these 
thoughts  from  me.  Charlotte  has  some  books;  and  this  is  what 
I  believe  she  calls  her  little  library.  [Enters  a  closet. 

Enter  DIMPLE  leading  LETITIA. 

LETITIA.  And  will  you  pretend  to  say  now,  Mr.  Dimple,  that 
you  propose  to  break  with  Maria?  Are  not  the  banns  published? 
Are  not  the  clothes  purchased?  Are  not  the  friends  invited? 
In  short,  is  it  not  a  done  affair? 

DIMPLE.    Believe  me,  my  dear  Letitia,  I  would  not  marry  her. 

LETITIA.  Why  have  you  not  broke  with  her  before  this,  as  you 
all  along  deluded  me  by  saying  you  would? 

DIMPLE.  Because  I  was  in  hopes  she  would,  ere  this,  have 
broke  with  me. 

LETITIA.   You  could  not  expect  it. 

DIMPLE.  Nay,  but  be  calm  a  moment;  'twas  from  my  regard 
to  you  that  I  did  not  discard  her. 

LETITIA.   Regard  to  me ! 

DIMPLE.  Yes;  I  have  done  everything  in  my  power  to  break 
with  her,  but  the  foolish  girl  is  so  fond  of  me  that  nothing  can  ac 
complish  it.  Besides,  how  can  I  offer  her  my  hand  when  my  heart 
is  indissolubly  engaged  to  you? 

LETITIA.  There  may  be  reason  in  this;  but  why  so  attentive  to 
Miss  Manly? 

DIMPLE.  Attentive  to  Miss  Manly!  For  heaven's  sake,  if  you 
have  no  better  opinion  of  my  constancy,  pay  not  so  ill  a  compli 
ment  to  my  taste. 

[LETITIA.   Did  I  not  see  you  whisper  to  her  to-day? 

DIMPLE.  Possibly  I  might — but  something  of  so  very  trifling  a 
nature  that  I  have  already  forgot  what  it  was. 

LETITIA.   I  believe  she  has  not  forgot  it. 

DIMPLE.  My  dear  creature,]  how  can  you  for  a  moment  suppose 
I  should  have  any  serious  thoughts  of  that  trifling,  gay,  flighty 
coquette,  that  disagreeable — 

Enter  CHARLOTTE. 

DIMPLE.  My  dear  Miss  Manly,  I  rejoice  to  see  you;  there  is 
a  charm  in  your  conversation  that  always  marks  your  entrance 
into  company  as  fortunate. 


494  Representative  Plays 

LETITIA.  Where  have  you  been,  my  dear? 

CHARLOTTE.  Why,  I  have  been  about  to  twenty  shops,  turning 
over  pretty  things,  and  so  have  left  twenty  visits  unpaid.  I 
wish  you  would  step  into  the  carriage  and  whisk  round,  make 
my  apology,  and  leave  my  cards  where  our  friends  are  not  at 
home;  that,  you  know,  will  serve  as  a  visit.  Come,  do  go. 

LETITIA.  So  anxious  to  get  me  out!  but  I'll  watch  you.  [Aside.] 
Oh!  yes,  I'll  go;  I  want  a  little  exercise.  Positively  [DIMPLE  offer 
ing  to  accompany  her.],  Mr.  Dimple,  you  shall  not  go;  why,  half 
my  visits  are  cake  and  caudle  visits;  it  won't  do,  you  know, 
for  you  to  go.  [Exit,  but  returns  to  the  door  in  the  back  scene  and 
listens.  ] 

DIMPLE.  This  attachment  of  your  brother  to  Maria  is  fortunate. 

CHARLOTTE.   How  did  you  come  to  the  knowledge  of  it? 

DIMPLE.  I  read  it  in  their  eyes. 

CHARLOTTE.  And  I  had  it  from  her  mouth.  It  would  have 
amused  you  to  have  seen  her!  She,  that  thought  it  so  great  an 
impropriety  to  praise  a  gentleman  that  she  could  not  bring  out 
one  word  in  your  favour,  found  a  redundancy  to  praise  him. 

DIMPLE.  I  have  done  everything  in  my  power  to  assist  his  pas 
sion  there:  your  delicacy,  my  dearest  girl,  would  be  shocked  at 
half  the  instances  of  neglect  and  misbehaviour. 

CHARLOTTE.  I  don't  know  how  I  should  bear  neglect;  but  Mr. 
Dimple  must  misbehave  himself  indeed,  to  forfeit  my  good 
opinion. 

DIMPLE.  Your  good  opinion,  my  angel,  is  the  pride  and  plea 
sure  of  my  heart;  and  if  the  most  respectful  tenderness  for  you, 
and  an  utter  indifference  for  all  your  sex  besides,  can  make  me 
worthy  of  your  esteem,  I  shall  richly  merit  it. 

CHARLOTTE.  All  my  sex  besides,  Mr.  Dimple! — you  forgot  your 
tete-a-tete  with  Letitia. 

DIMPLE.  How  can  you,  my  lovely  angel,  cast  a  thought  on  that 
insipid,  wry-mouthed,  ugly  creature ! 

CHARLOTTE.  But  her  fortune  may  have  charms? 

DIMPLE.  Not  to  a  heart  like  mine.  The  man,  who  has  been 
blessed  with  the  good  opinion  of  my  Charlotte,  must  despise  the 
allurements  of  fortune. 

CHARLOTTE.    I  am  satisfied. 

DIMPLE.  Let  us  think  no  more  on  the  odious  subject,  but  de 
vote  the  present  hour  to  happiness. 


The  Contrast  495 

CHARLOTTE.  Can  I  be  happy  when  I  see  the  man  I  prefer  going 
to  be  married  to  another? 

DIMPLE.  Have  I  not  already  satisfied  my  charming  angel  that 
I  can  never  think  of  marrying  the  puling  Maria?  But,  even  if  it 
were  so,  could  that  be  any  bar  to  our  happiness?  for,  as  the  poet 
.sings, 

Love,  free  as  air,  at  sight  of  human  ties, 
Spreads  his  light  wings,  and  in  a  moment  flies. 

Come,  then,  my  charming  angel!  why  delay  our  bliss?  The 
present  moment  is  ours ;  the  next  is  in  the  hand  of  fate. 

[Kissing  her. 

CHARLOTTE.  Begone,  sir!  By  your  delusions  you  had  almost 
lulled  my  honour  asleep. 

DIMPLE.  Let  me  lull  the  demon  to  sleep  again  with  kisses.     [He 
struggles  with  her;  she  screams.] 

Enter  MANLY. 
MANLY.    Turn,  villain!    and  defend  yourself.     [Draws.] 

VAN  ROUGH  enters  and  beats  down  their  swords. 

VAN  ROUGH.  Is  the  devil  in  you?  are  you  going  to  murder  one 
another?  [Holding  DIMPLE. 

DIMPLE.  Hold  him,  hold  him, — I  can  command  my  passion. 

Enter  JONATHAN. 

JONATHAN.  What  the  rattle  ails  you?  Is  the  old  one  in  you? 
let  the  Colonel  alone,  can't  you?  I  feel  chock  full  of  fight, — do 
you  want  to  kill  the  Colonel? — 

MANLY.  Be  still,  Jonathan;  the  gentleman  does  not  want  to 
hurt  me. 

JONATHAN.  Gor!  I — I  wish  he  did;  I'd  shew  him  yankee  boys 
play,  pretty  quick. — Don't  you  see  you  have  frightened  the  young 
woman  into  the  hy strikes'? 

VAN  ROUGH.  Pray,  some  of  you  explain  this;  what  has  been  the 
occasion  of  all  this  racket? 

MANLY.  That  gentleman  can  explain  it  to  you;  it  will  be  a  very 
diverting  story  for  an  intended  father-in-law  to  hear. 

VAN  ROUGH.  How  was  this  matter,  Mr.  Van  Dumpling? 

DIMPLE.  Sir, — upon  my  honour, — all  I  know  is,  that  I  was  talk 
ing  to  this  young  lady,  and  this  gentleman  broke  in  on  us  in  a  very 
extraordinary  manner. 


496  Representative  Plays 

VAN  ROUGH.  Why,  all  this  is  nothing  to  the  purpose;  can  you 
explain  it,  Miss?  [To  CHARLOTTE.] 

Enter  LETITIA  [through  the  back  scene]. 

LETITIA.  I  can  explain  it  to  that  gentleman's  confusion.  Though 
long  betrothed  to  your  daughter  [To  VAN  ROUGH.],  yet,  allured  by 
my  fortune,  it  seems  (with  shame  do  I  speak  it)  he  has  privately 
paid  his  addresses  to  me.  I  was  drawn  in  to  listen  to  him  by 
his  assuring  me  that  the  match  was  made  by  his  father  without 
his  consent,  and  that  he  proposed  to  break  with  Maria,  whether 
he  married  me  or  not.  But,  whatever  were  his  intentions 
respecting  your  daughter,  sir,  even  to  me  he  was  false;  for  he 
has  repeated  the  same  story,  with  some  cruel  reflections  upon  my 
person,  to  Miss  Manly. 

JONATHAN.  What  a  tarnal  curse ! 

LETITIA.  Nor  is  this  all,  Miss  Manly.  When  he  was  with  me 
this  very  morning,  he  made  the  same  ungenerous  reflections  upon 
the  weakness  of  your  mind  as  he  has  so  recently  done  upon  the 
defects  of  my  person. 

JONATHAN.  What  a  tarnal  curse  and  damn,  too! 

DIMPLE.  Ha !  since  I  have  lost  Letitia,  I  believe  I  had  as  good 
make  it  up  with  Maria.  Mr.  Van  Rough,  at  present  I  cannot 
enter  into  particulars;  but,  I  believe,  I  can  explain  everything  to 
your  satisfaction  in  private. 

VAN  ROUGH.  There  is  another  matter,  Mr.  Van  Dumpling, 
which  I  would  have  you  explain: — pray,  sir,  have  Messrs.  Van 
Cash  &  Co.  presented  you  those  bills  for  acceptance? 

DIMPLE.  The  deuce!  Has  he  heard  of  those  bills!  Nay,  then, 
all's  up  with  Maria,  too;  but  an  affair  of  this  sort  can  never  pre 
judice  me  among  the  ladies;  they  will  rather  long  to  know  what 
the  dear  creature  possesses  to  make  him  so  agreeable.  [Aside.] 
Sir,  you'll  hear  from  me.  [To  MANLY.] 

MANLY.  And  you  from  me,  sir. — 

DIMPLE.   Sir,  you  wear  a  sword. — 

MANLY.  Yes,  sir.  This  sword  was  presented  to  me  by  that 
brave  Gallic  hero,  the  Marquis  DE  LA  FAYETTE.  I  have  drawn 
it  in  the  service  of  my  country,  and  in  private  life,  on  the  only 
occasion  where  a  man  is  justified  in  drawing  his  sword,  in  defence 
of  a  lady's  honour.  I  have  fought  too  many  battles  in  the 
service  of  my  country  to  dread  the  imputation  of  cowardice. 
Death  from  a  man  of  honour  would  be  a  glory  you  do  not  merit; 


The  Contrast  497 

you  shall  live  to  bear  the  insult  of  man  and  the  contempt  of 
that  sex  whose  general  smiles  afforded  you  all  your  happiness. 

DIMPLE.  You  won't  meet  me,  sir?  Then  I'll  post  you  for  a 
coward. 

MANLY.  I'll  venture  that,  sir.  The  reputation  of  my  life  does 
not  depend  upon  the  breath  of  a  Mr.  Dimple.  I  would  have  you 
to  know,  however,  sir,  that  I  have  a  cane  to  chastise  the  insolence 
of  a  scoundrel,  and  a  sword  and  the  good  laws  of  my  country  to 
protect  me  from  the  attempts  of  an  assassin. — 

DIMPLE.  Mighty  well!  Very  fine,  indeed!  Ladies  and  gentle 
men,  I  take  my  leave;  and  you  will  please  to  observe,  in  the  case  of 
my  deportment,  the  contrast  between  a  gentleman  who  has  read 
Chesterfield  and  received  the  polish  of  Europe,  and  an  unpolished, 
untravelled  American.  [Exit. 

Enter  MARIA. 

MARIA.   Is  he  indeed  gone? — 

LETITIA.  I  hope,  never  to  return. 

VAN  ROUGH.  I  am  glad  I  heard  of  those  bills;  though  it's 
plaguy  unlucky;  I  hoped  to  see  Mary  married  before  I  died. 

MANLY.  Will  you  permit  a  gentteman,  sir,  to  offer  himself  as  a 
suitor  to  your  daughter?  Though  a  stranger  to  you,  he  is  not 
altogether  so  to  her,  or  unknown  in  the  city.  You  may  find  a  son- 
in-law  of  more  fortune,  but  you  can  never  meet  with  one  who  is 
richer  in  love  for  her,  or  respect  for  you. 

VAN  ROUGH.  Why,  Mary,  you  have  not  let  this  gentleman 
make  love  to  you  without  my  leave? 

MANLY.   I  did  not  say,  sir — 

MARIA.  Say,  sir! — I — the  gentleman,  to  be  sure,  met  me 
accidentally. 

VAN  ROUGH.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Mark  me,  Mary;  young  folks  think 
old  folks  to  be  fools;  but  old  folks  know  young  folks  to  be  fools. 
Why,  I  knew  all  about  this  affair: — This  was  only  a  cunning  way  I 
had  to  bring  it  about.  Hark  ye !  I  was  in  the  closet  when  you  and 
he  were  at  our  house.  [Turns  to  the  company.]  I  heard  that 
little  baggage  say  she  loved  her  old  father,  and  would  die  to  make 
him  happy!  Oh!  how  I  loved  the  little  baggage! — And  you 
talked  very  prudently,  young  man.  I  have  inquired  into  your 
character,  and  find  you  to  be  a  man  of  punctuality  and  mind  the 
main  chance.  And  so,  as  you  love  Mary,  and  Mary  loves  you, 
you  shall  have  my  consent  immediately  to  be  married.  I'll 


498  Representative  Plays 

settle  my  fortune  on  you,  and  go  and  live  with  you  the  remainder 
of  my  life. 

MANLY.   Sir,  I  hope — 

VAN  ROUGH.  Come,  come,  no  fine  speeches;  mind  the  main 
chance,  young  man,  and  you  and  I  shall  always  agree. 

LETITIA.  I  sincerely  wish  you  joy  [Advancing  to  MARIA.];  and 
hope  your  pardon  for  my  conduct. 

MARIA.  I  thank  you  for  your  congratulations,  and  hope  we 
shall  at  once  forget  the  wretch  who  has  given  us  so  much  disquiet, 
and  the  trouble  that  he  has  occasioned. 

CHARLOTTE.  And  I,  my  dear  Maria, — how  shall  I  look  up  to 
you  for  forgiveness?  I,  who,  in  the  practice  of  the  meanest  arts, 
have  violated  the  most  sacred  rights  of  friendship?  I  can  never 
forgive  myself,  or  hope  charity  from  the  world;  but,  I  confess, 
I  have  much  to  hope  from  such  a  brother;  and  I  am  happy  that 
I  may  soon  say,  such  a  sister. 

MARIA.  My  dear,  you  distress  me;  you  have  all  my  love. 

MANLY.   And  mine. 

CHARLOTTE.  If  repentance  can  entitle  me  to  forgiveness,  I 
have  already  much  merit ;  for  I  despise  the  littleness  of  my  past 
conduct.  I  now  find  that  the  heart  of  any  worthy  man  cannot  be 
gained  by  invidious  attacks  upon  the  rights  and  characters  o'f 
others; — by  countenancing  the  addresses  of  a  thousand; — or  that 
the  finest  assemblage  of  features,  the  greatest  taste  in  dress,  the 
genteelest  address,  or  the  most  brilliant  wit,  cannot  eventually 
secure  a  coquette  from  contempt  and  ridicule. 

MANLY.  And  I  have  learned  that  probity,  virtue,  honour, 
though  they  should  not  have  received  the  polish  of  Europe, 
will  secure  to  an  honest  American  the  good  graces  of  his  fair 
countrywomen,  and,  I  hope,  the  applause  of  THE  PUBLIC. 

The  End. 


ANDRE 


By 
WILLIAM    DUNLAP 


WlLLIAM  DUNLAP 


WILLIAM  DUNLAP: 
FATHER  OF  THE  AMERICAN  THEATRE 

(1766-1839) 

The  life  of  William  Dunlap  is  full  of  colour  and  variety.  Upon 
his  shoulders  very  largely  rests  the  responsibility  for  whatever 
knowledge  we  have  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  early  theatre  in 
America,  and  of  the  personalities  of  the  players.  For,  as  a  boy, 
his  father  being  a  Loyalist,  there  is  no  doubt  that  young  William 
used  to  frequent  the  play-house  of  the  Red  Coats,  and  we  would 
like  to  believe  actually  saw  some  of  the  performances  with  which 
Major  Andre  was  connected. 

He  was  born  at  Perth  Amboy,  then  the  seat  of  government  for 
the  Province  of  New  Jersey,  on  February  10,  1766  (where  he  died 
September  28,  1839),  and,  therefore,  as  an  historian  of  the  thea 
tre,  he  was  able  to  glean  his  information  from  first  hand  sources. 
Yet,  his  monumental  work  on  the  "History  of  the  American 
Theatre"  was  written  in  late  years,  when  memory  was  beginning 
to  be  overclouded,  and,  in  recent  times,  it  has  been  shown  that 
Dunlap  was  not  always  careful  in  his  dates  or  in  his  statements. 
George  Seilhamer,  whose  three  volumes,  dealing  with  the 
American  Theatre  before  the  year  1800,  are  invaluable,  is  par 
ticularly  acrimonious  in  his  strictures  against  Dunlap.  Never 
theless,  he  has  to  confess  his  indebtedness  to  the  Father  of  the 
American  Theatre. 

Dunlap  was  many-sided  in  his  tastes  and  activities.  There  is 
small  reason  to  doubt  that  from  his  earliest  years  the  theatre 
proved  his  most  attractive  pleasure.  But,  when  he  was  scarcely 
in  the  flush  of  youth,  he  went  to  Europe,  and  studied  art  under 
Benjamin  West.  Throughout  his  life  he  was  ever  producing  can 
vases,  and  designing,  and  his  interest  in  the  art  activity  of  the 
country,  which  connects  his  name  with  the  establishment  of  the 
New  York  Academy  of  Design,  together  with  his  writing  on  the 
subject,  make  him  an  important  figure  in  that  line  of  work. 

On  his  return  from  Europe,  as  we  have  already  noted,  he  was 
fired  to  write  plays  through  the  success  of  Royall  Tyler,  and  he 
began  his  long  career  as  dramatist,  which  threw  him  upon  his  own 


5O2  Representative  Plays 

inventive  resourcefulness,  and  so  closely  identified  him  with  the 
name  of  the  German,  Kotzebue,  whose  plays  he  used  to  translate 
and  adapt  by  the  wholesale,  as  did  also  Charles  Smith. 

The  pictures  of  William  Dunlap  are  very  careful  to  indicate  in 
realistic  fashion  the  fact  that  he  had  but  one  eye.  When  a  boy, 
one  of  his  playmates  at  school  threw  a  stone,  which  hit  his  right 
eye.  But  though  he  was  thus  early  made  single-visioned,  he  saw 
more  than  his  contemporaries;  for  he  was  a  man  who  mingled 
much  in  the  social  life  of  the  time,  and  he  had  a  variety  of  friends, 
among  them  Charles  Brockden  Brown,  the  novelist,  and  George 
Frederick  Cooke,  the  tragedian.  He  was  the  biographer  for  both 
of  them,  and  these  volumes  are  filled  with  anecdote,  which  throws 
light,  not  only  on  the  subjects,  but  upon  the  observational  taste 
of  the  writer.  There  are  those  who  claim  that  he  was  unjust 
to  Cooke,  making  him  more  of  a  drunkard  than  he  really  was. 
And  the  effect  the  book  had  on  some  of  its  readers  may  excel 
lently  well  be  seen  by  Lord  Byron's  exclamation,  after  having 
finished  it.  As  quoted  by  Miss  Crawford,  in  her  "Romance  of  the 
American  Theatre,"  he  said:  "Such  a  book!  I  believe,  since 
'Drunken  Barnaby's  Journal,'  nothing  like  it  has  drenched  the 
press.  All  green-room  and  tap-room,  drams  and  the  drama. 
Brandy,  whiskey-punch,  and,  latterly,  toddy,  overflow  every 
page.  Two  things  are  rather  marvelous;  first,  that  a  man  should 
live  so  long  drunk,  and  next  that  he  should  have  found  a  sober 
biographer." 

Dunlap's  first  play  was  called  "The  Modest  Soldier;  or,  Love 
in  New  York"  (1787).  We  shall  let  him  be  his  own  chronicler: 

As  a  medium  of  communication  between  the  playwriter  and 
the  manager,  a  man  was  pointed  out,  who  had  for  a  time  been  of 
some  consequence  on  the  London  boards,  and  now  resided  under 
another  name  in  New  York.  This  was  the  Dubellamy  of  the  English 
stage,  a  first  singer  and  walking-gentleman.  He  was  now  past  his 
meridian,  but  still  a  handsome  man,  and  was  found  sufficiently  easy 
of  access  and  full  of  the  courtesy  of  the  old  school.  A  meeting  was 
arranged  at  the  City  Tavern,  and  a  bottle  of  Madeira  discussed  with 
the  merits  of  this  first-born  of  a  would-be  author.  The  wine  was 
praised,  and  the  play  was  praised — the  first,  perhaps,  made  the  second 
tolerable — that  must  be  good  which  can  repay  a  man  of  the  world  for 
listening  to  an  author  who  reads  his  own  play. 

In  due  course  of  time,  the  youthful  playwright  reached  the 
presence  of  the  then  all-powerful  actors,  Hallam  and  Henry,  and, 


Andre  503 

after  some  conference  with  them,  the  play  was  accepted.  But 
though  accepted,  it  was  not  produced,  that  auspicious  occasion 
being  deferred  whenever  the  subject  was  broached.  At  this  time, 
young  Dunlap  was  introduced  to  the  stony  paths  of  playwriting. 
He  had  to  alter  his  manuscript  in  many  ways,  only  to  see  it  laid 
upon  the  shelf  until  some  future  occasion.  And,  according  to  his 
confession,  the  reason  the  piece  did  not  receive  immediate  pro 
duction  was  because  there  was  no  part  which  Henry,  the  six- 
foot,  handsome  idol  of  the  day,  could  see  himself  in  to  his  own 
satisfaction. 

Dunlap's  next  play  was  "The  Father;  or,  American  Shandy- 
ism,1  which  was  produced  on  September  7,  1789.  It  was  pub 
lished  almost  immediately,  and  was  later  reprinted,  under  the 
title  of  "The  Father  of  an  Only  Child." 

Most  historians  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  to  Dunlap  be 
longs  the  credit  of  having  first  introduced  to  the  American  stage 
the  German  dialect  of  the  later  Comedian.  Even  as  we  look  to 
Tyler's  "The  Contrast"  for  the  first  Yankee,  to  Samuel  Low's 
"Politician  Out-witted"  for  an  early  example  of  Negro  dialect,  so 
may  we  trace  other  veins  of  American  characteristics  as  they 
appeared  in  early  American  dramas. 

But  it  is  to  "Darby's  Return," 2  the  musical  piece,  that  our  in 
terest  points,  because  it  was  produced  for  the  benefit  of  Thomas 
Wignell,  at  the  New- York  Theatre  (November  24,  1789),  and 
probably  boasted  among  its  first-nighters  George  Washington. 
Writes  Dunlap: 

The  eyes  of  the  audience  were  frequently  bent  on  his  countenance, 
and  to  watch  the  emotions  produced  by  any  particular  passage  upon 
him  was  the  simultaneous  employment  of  all.  When  Wignell,  as 
Darby,  recounts  what  had  befallen  him  in  America,  in  New  York,  at 
the  adoption  of  the  Federal  Constitution,  and  the  inauguration  of  the 
President,  the  interest  expressed  by  the  audience  in  the  looks  and  the 
changes  of  countenance  of  this  great  man  became  intense. 

And  then  there  follows  an  indication  by  Dunlap  of  where 
Washington  smiled,  and  where  he  showed  displeasure.  And, 

1  The/Father;/or,/American  Shandy-ism. /A  Comedy./As  performed  at  the  New- 
York  Theatre,/By  the/Old  American  Company./Written  in  the  year  iy88./With 
what  fond  hope,  through  many  a  blissful  hour,/We  give  the  soul  to  Fancy's  pleasing 
pow'r./Conquest  of  Canaan./New-York:/Printed  by  Hodge,  Allen  &  Campbell./ 
M,  DCC,  LXXXIX./ 

2  Darby's  Return :/A  Comic  Sketch./As  Performed  at  the  New- York  Theatre,/ 
November  24,  i78g,/For  the  Benefit  of  Mr.  Wignell.    Written  by  William  Dunlap./ 
New- York i/Printed  by  Hodge,  Allen  and  Campbell./And  Sold  at  their  respective 
Bookstores,/and  by  Berry  and  Rogers./M,  DCC.  LXXXIX./ 


v 

. 


504  Representative  Plays 

altogether,  there  was  much  perturbation  of  mind  over  every 
quiver  of  his  eye-lash.  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  as  a  playgoer,  the 
Father  of  our  Country  figured  quite  as  constantly  as  the  Father 
of  our  Theatre.  When  the  seat  of  Government  changed  from  New 
York  to  Philadelphia,  President  Washington's  love  of  the  theatre 
prompted  many  theatrical  enterprises  to  follow  in  his  wake,  and 
we  have  an  interesting  picture,  painted  in  words  by  Seilhamer 
(ii,  316),  of  the  scene  at  the  old  Southwark  on  such  an  occasion. 
He  says: 

[The  President]  frequently  occupied  the  east  stage-box,  which  was 
fitted  up  expressly  for  his  reception.  Over  the  front  of  the  box  was 
the  United  States  coat-of-arms  and  the  interior  was  gracefully 
festooned  with  red  drapery.  The  front  of  the  box  and  the  seats  were 
cushioned.  According  to  John  [sic]  Durang,  Washington's  reception 
at  the  theatre  was  always  exceedingly  formal  and  ceremonious.  A 
soldier  was  generally  posted  at  each  stage-door;  four  soldiers  were 
placed  in  the  gallery;  a  military  guard  attended.  Mr.  Wignell,  in  a 
full  dress  of  black,  with  his  hair  elaborately  powdered  in  the  fashion 
of  the  time,  and  holding  two  wax  candles  in  silver  candle-sticks,  was 
accustomed  to  receive  the  President  at  the  box-door  and  conduct 
Washington  and  his  party  to  their  seats.  Even  the  newspapers 
began  to  take  notice  of  the  President's  contemplated  visits  to  the 
theatre. 

This  is  the  atmosphere  which  must  have  attended  the  per 
formance  of  Dunlap's  "Darby's  Return." 

The  play  which  probably  is  best  known  to-day,  as  by  William 
Dunlap,  is  his  "Andre,1  in  which  Washington  figures  as  the 
General,  later  to  appear  under  his  full  name,  when  Dunlap  util 
ized  the  old  drama  in  a  manuscript  libretto,  entitled  "The  Glory 
of  Columbia — Her  Yeomanry"  (1817).  The  play  was  produced  on 
March  30,  1798,  after  Dunlap  had  become  manager  of  the  New 
Park  Theatre,  within  whose  proscenium  it  was  given.  Professor 
Matthews,  editing  the  piece  for  the  Dunlap  Society  (No.  4,  1887), 
claims  that  this  was  the  first  drama  acted  in  the  United  States 
during  Washington's  life,  in  which  he  was  made  to  appear  on 
the  stage  of  a  theatre.  But  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  in 
"The  Fall  of  British  Tyranny,"  written  in  1776,  by  Leacock, 
Washington  appears  for  the  first  time  in  any  piece  of  American 

1  Andr6;/A  Tragedy,  in  Five  Acts:/ As  Performed  by  the  Old  American  Company,/ 
New- York,  March  30,  I7p8./To  which  are  added./Authentic  Documents/respecting/ 
Major  Andre i/Consisting  of/Letters  to  Miss  Seward, /The/Cow  Chace./Proceedings 
of  the  Court  Martial,  &c./Copy  Right  Secured./New-York:/Printed  by  T.  &  J. 
Swords,  No.  99  Pearl-street./i?98./ 


Andre  505 

fiction.    Dunlap  writes  of  the  performance  (American  Theatre, 
ii,  20) : 

The  receipts  were  817  dollars,  a  temporary  relief.  The  play  was 
received  with  warm  applause,  until  Mr.  Cooper,  in  the  character 
of  a  young  American  officer,  who  had  been  treated  as  a  brother 
by  Andre  when  a  prisoner  with  the  British,  in  his  zeal  and  gratitude, 
having  pleaded  for  the  life  of  the  spy  in  vain,  tears  the  American 
cockade  from  his  casque,  and  throws  it  from  him.  This  was  not,  per 
haps  could  not  be,  understood  by  a  mixed  assembly;  they  thought 
the  country  and  its  defenders  insulted,  and  a  hiss  ensued — it  was  soon 
quieted,  and  the  play  ended  with  applause.  But  the  feeling  excited 
by  the  incident  was  propagated  out  of  doors.  Cooper's  friends  wished 
the  play  withdrawn,  on  his  account,  fearing  for  his  popularity.  How 
ever,  the  author  made  an  alteration  in  the  incident,  and  subsequently 
all  went  on  to  the  end  with  applause. 

A  scene  from  the  last  act  of  "Andre"1  was  produced  at  an 
American  Drama  Matinee,  under  the  auspices  of  the  American 
Drama  Committee  of  the  Drama  League  of  America,  New  York 
Centre,  on  January  22nd  and  23rd,  1917.  There  are  many 
Arnold  and  Andre  plays,  some  of  which  have  been  noted  by  Pro 
fessor  Matthews.2  Another  interesting  historical  study  is  the 
stage  popularity  of  Nathan  Hale. 

We  might  go  on  indefinitely,  narrating  incidents  connected 
with  Dunlap  as  citizen,  painter,  playwright,  author,  and  theat 
rical  manager,  for  within  a  very  short  time  he  managed  the  John 
Street  and  New  Park  Theatres,  retiring  for  a  while  in  1805. 

But  this  is  sufficient  to  illustrate  the  pioneer  character  of 
his  work  and  influence.  Inaccurate  he  may  have  been  in  his 
"History  of  the  American  Theatre,"  but  the  atmosphere  is  there, 
and  he  never  failed  to  recognize  merit,  and  to  give  touches  of 
character  to  the  actors,  without  which  our  impression  of  the  early- 
theatre  in  this  country  would  be  the  poorer.  The  name  of  Will 
iam  Dunlap  is  intimately  associated  with  the  beginnings  of 
American  painting,  American  literary  life  and  the  American 
Theatre.  It  is  for  these  he  will  ever  remain  distinguished. 

As  a  playwright,  he  wrote  so  rapidly,  and  so  constantly  utilized 
over  and  over  again,  not  only  his  own  material,  but  the  materials 
of  others,  that  it  is  not  surprising  to  find  him  often  in  dispute  with 

1  One  of  Dunlap's  best-known  tragedies  w;is  "Leicester,"  published  by  David 
Longworth  in  1807. 

-  Freneau  began  a  play,  "The  Spy"  (Pattee,  "Poems  of  Philip  Freneau"),  in 
which  Andre  was  a  character. 


506  Representative  Plays 

dramatic  authors  of  the  time.  A  typical  disagreement  occurred 
in  the  case  of  the  actor  John  Hodgkinson  (1767-1805),  whose 
drama,  "The  Man  of  Fortitude;  or,  the  Knight's  Adventure," 
given  at  the  John  Street  Theatre,  on  June  7,  1797,  was,  according 
to  Dunlap,  based  on  his  own  one-act  verse  play,  "The  Knight's 
Adventure,"  submitted  to  the  actor  some  years  before. 

Only  the  play,  based  on  the  1798  edition,  is  here  reproduced. 
The  authentic  documents  are  omitted. 


ANDRE; 

A  TR4GEDY,  IN  FIVE  ACTS: 

AS  PERFORMED  BY  THE  OLD  AMERICAN  COMPANY* 
NEW-YORK,  MARCH  30,  1798. 

TO  WHICH  ARE  ADDED 

AUTHENTIC  DOCUMENTS 

fclSftCTINO 

MAJOR  JNDRE; 

CONSISTING   Of 

LETTERS  TO  Miss  SEWARD, 

TM 

COW  CHACE, 

PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  COURT  MARTIAL,  £ 

COPT  RIGHT  SECURED. 


NEW.  YORK: 

Printed  by  T.  to*  J.  SWORDS,  No.  99  Pearl-ftreej. 
—1798.— 


FAC-SIMILE  TITLE-PAGE  OF  THE  FIRST  EDITION 


PREFACE 

More  than  nine  years  ago  the  Author  made  choice  of  the 
death  of  Major  Andre  as  the  Subject  of  a  Tragedy,  and  part 
of  what  is  now  offered  to  the  public  was  written  at  that  time. 
Many  circumstances  discouraged  him  from  finishing  his  Play, 
and  among  them  must  be  reckoned  a  prevailing  opinion  that 
recent  events  are  unfit  subjects  for  tragedy.  These  discourage 
ments  have  at  length  all  given  way  to  his  desire  of  bringing  a 
story  on  the  Stage  so  eminently  fitted,  in  his  opinion,  to  excite 
interest  in  the  breasts  of  an  American  audience: 

In  exhibiting  a  stage  representation  of  a  real  transaction,  the 
particulars  of  which  are  fresh  in  the  minds  of  many  of  the  audi 
ence,  an  author  has  this  peculiar  difficulty  to  struggle  with,  that 
those  who  know  the  events  expect  to  see  them  all  recorded ;  and 
any  deviation  from  what  they  remember  to  be  fact,  appears  to 
them  as  a  fault  in  the  poet;  they  are  disappointed,  their  expecta 
tions  are  not  fulfilled,  and  the  writer  is  more  or  less  condemned, 
not  considering  the  difference  between  the  poet  and  the  historian, 
or  not  knowing  that  what  is  intended  to  be  exhibited  is  a  free 
poetical  picture,  not  an  exact  historical  portrait. 

Still  further  difficulties  has  the  Tragedy  of  Andre  to  surmount, 
difficulties  independent  of  its  own  demerits,  in  its  way  to  public 
favour.  The  subject  necessarily  involves  political  questions;  but 
the  Author  presumes  that  he  owes  no  apology  to  any  one  for 
having  shewn  himself  an  American.  The  friends  of  Major 
Andre  (and  it  appears  that  all  who  knew  him  were  his  friends) 
will  look  with  a  jealous  eye  on  the  Poem,  whose  principal  incident 
is  the  sad  catastrophe  which  his  misconduct,  in  submitting  to 
be  an  instrument  in  a  transaction  of  treachery  and  deceit,  justly 
brought  upon  him:  but  these  friends  have  no  cause  of  offence; 
the  Author  has  adorned  the  poetical  character  of  Andre  with 
every  virtue;  he  has  made  him  his  Hero;  to  do  which,  he  was 
under  the  necessity  of  making  him  condemn  his  own  conduct,  in 
the  one  dreadfully  unfortunate  action  of  his  life.  To  shew  the 
effects  which  Major  Andre's  excellent  qualities  had  upon  the 
minds  of  men,  the  Author  has  drawn  a  generous  and  amiable 


Andre  509 

youth,  so  blinded  by  his  love  for  the  accomplished  Briton,  as  to 
consider  his  country,  and  the  great  commander  of  her  armies,  as 
in  the  commission  of  such  horrid  injustice,  that  he,  in  the  anguish 
of  his  soul,  disclaims  the  service.  In  this  it  appears,  since  the  first 
representation,  that  the  Author  has  gone  near  to  offend  the  veter 
ans  of  the  American  army  who  were  present  on  the  first  night, 
and  who  not  knowing  the  sequel  of  the  action,  felt  much  disposed 
to  condemn  him:  but  surely  they  must  remember  the  diversity 
of  opinion  which  agitated  the  minds  of  men  at  that  time,  on  the 
question  of  the  propriety  of  putting  Andre  to  death ;  and  when 
they  add  the  circumstances  of  Andre's  having  saved  the  life  of 
this  youth,  and  gained  his  ardent  friendship,  they  will  be  inclined 
to  mingle  with  their  disapprobation,  a  sentiment  of  pity,  and 
excuse,  perhaps  commend  the  Poet,  who  has  represented  the 
action  without  sanctioning  it  by  his  approbation. 

As  a  sequel  to  the  affair  of  the  cockade,  the  Author  has  added 
the  following  lines,  which  the  reader  is  requested  to  insert,  page 
55,  between  the  5th  and  I5th  lines,  instead  of  the  lines  he  will  find 
there,  which  were  printed  before  the  piece  was  represented.  * — 

BLAND. 

Noble  M'Donald,  truth  and  honour's  champion! 

Yet  think  not  strange  that  my  intemperance  wrong'd  thee: 

Good  as  thou  art!  for,  would'st  thou,  canst  thou,  think  it? 

My  tongue,  unbridled,  hath  the  same  offence, 

With  action  violent,  and  boisterous  tone, 

Hurl'd  on  that  glorious  man,  whose  pious  labours 

Shield  from  every  ill  his  grateful  country! 

That  man,  whom  friends  to  adoration  love, 

And  enemies  revere. — Yes,  M'Donald, 

Even  in  the  presence  of  the  first  of  men 

Did  I  abjure  the  service  of  my  country, 

And  reft  my  helmet  of  that  glorious  badge 

Which  graces  even  the  brow  of  Washington. 

How  shall  I  see  him  more ! — 

M'DONALD. 

Alive  himself  to  every  generous  impulse, 

He  hath  excus'd  the  impetuous  warmth  of  youth, 

In  expectation  that  thy  fiery  soul, 

*See  p.  557- 


5io  Representative  Plays 

Chasten'd  by  time  and  reason,  will  receive 

The  stamp  indelible  of  godlike  virtue. 

To  me,  in  trust,  he  gave  this  badge  disclaim'd, 

With  power,  when  thou  shouldst  see  thy  wrongful  error, 

From  him,  to  reinstate  it  in  thy  helm, 

And  thee  in  his  high  favour.  [Gives  the  cockade. 

BLAND  [takes  the  cockade  and  replaces  it]. 

Shall  I  speak  my  thoughts  of  thee  and  him? 

No: — let  my  actions  henceforth  shew  what  thou 

And  he  have  made  me.    Ne'er  shall  my  helmet 

Lack  again  its  proudest,  noblest  ornament, 

Until  my  country  knows  the  rest  of  peace, 

Or  Bland  the  peace  of  death !  [Exit. 

This  alteration,  as  well  as  the  whole  performance,  on  the  second 
night,  met  the  warm  approbation  of  the  audience. 

To  the  performers  the  Author  takes  this  opportunity  of  return 
ing  his  thanks  for  their  exertions  in  his  behalf;  perfectly  con 
vinced,  that  on  this,  as  on  former  occasions,  the  members  of  the 
Old  American  Company  have  anxiously  striven  to  oblige  him. 

If  this  Play  is  successful,  it  will  be  a  proof  that  recent  events 
may  be  so  managed  in  tragedy  as  to  command  popular  attention ; 
if  it  is  unsuccessful,  the  question  must  remain  undetermined  until 
some  more  powerful  writer  shall  again  make  the  experiment.  The 
Poem  is  now  submitted  to  the  ordeal  of  closet  examination,  with 
the  Author's  respectful  assurance  to  every  reader,  that  as  it  is 
not  his  interest,  so  it  has  not  been  his  intention,  to  offend  any; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  to  impress,  through  the  medium  of  a  pleas 
ing  stage  exhibition,  the  sublime  lessons  of  Truth  and  Justice 
upon  the  minds  of  his  countrymen. 

W.  DUNLAP. 

New-York,  April  4th,  1798. 


PROLOGUE 

SPOKEN  BY  MR.  MARTIN. 

A  native  Bard,  a  native  scene  displays, 
And  claims  your  candour  for  his  daring  lays: 
Daring,  so  soon,  in  mimic  scenes  to  shew, 
What  each  remembers  as  a  real  woe. 
Who  has  forgot  when  gallant  ANDRE  died? 
A  name  by  Fate  to  Sorrow's  self  allied. 
Who  has  forgot,  when  o'er  the  untimely  bier, 
Contending  armies  paus'd,  to  drop  a  tear. 

Our  Poet  builds  upon  a  fact  tonight; 
Yet  claims,  in  building,  every  Poet's  right; 
To  choose,  embellish,  lop,  or  add,  or  blend, 
Fiction  with  truth,  as  best  may  suit  his  end; 
Which,  he  avows,  is  pleasure  to  impart, 
And  move  the  passions  but  to  mend  the  heart. 

Oh,  may  no  party-spirit  blast  his  views, 
Or  turn  to  ill  the  meanings  of  the  Muse: 
She  sings  of  wrongs  long  past,  Men  as  they  were, 
To  instruct,  without  reproach,  the  Men  that  are; 
Then  judge  the  Story  by  the  genius  shewn, 
And  praise,  or  camn,  it,  for  its  worth  alone. 


CHARACTERS 


GENERAL,  dress,  American  staff  uniform, 
blue,  faced  with  buff,  large  gold  epaulets, 
cocked  hat,  with  the  black  and  white  cockade, 
indicating  the  union  with  France,  buff 
waistcoat  and  breeches,  boots, 

M'  DONALD,  a  man  of  forty  years  of  age,  uni 
form  nearly  the  same  of  the  first, 

SEWARD,  a  man  of  thirty  years  of  age,  staff 
uniform, 

ANDRE,  a  man  of  twenty-nine  years  of  age, 
full  British  uniform  after  the  first  scene, 

BLAND,  a  youthful  but  military  figure,  in  the 
uniform  of  a  Captain  of  horse — dress,  a 
short  blue  coat,  faced  with  red,  and  trimmed 
with  gold  lace,  two  small  epaulets,  a  white 
waistcoat,  leather  breeches,  boots  and  spurs; 
over  the  coat,  crossing  the  chest  from  the  right 
shoulder,  a  broad  buff  belt,  to  which  is  sus 
pended  a  manageable  hussar  sword;  a 
horseman's  helmet  on  the  head,  decorated  as 
usual,  and  the  union  cockade  affixed, 

MELVILLE,  a  man  of  middle  age,  and  grave 
deportment;  his  dress  a  Captain's  uniform 
when  on  duty;  a  blue  coat,  with  red  facings, 
gold  epaulet,  white  waistcoat  and  breeches, 
boots  and  cocked  hat,  with  the  union  cockade, 

BRITISH  OFFICER, 

AMERICAN  OFFICER, 

CHILDREN, 

AMERICAN  SERGEANT, 


Mr.  Hallam. 


Mr.  Tyler. 
Mr.  Martin. 
Mr.  Hodgkinson. 


Mr.  Cooper. 


Mr.  Williamson. 
Mr.  Hogg. 
Mr.  Miller. 

Master  Stockwell  and  Miss  Hogg. 
Mr.  Seymour. 


AMERICAN  OFFICERS  AND  SOLDIERS,  &c. 
MRS.  BLAND,  Mrs.  Melmoth. 

HONORA,  Mrs.  Johnson. 

SCENE,  the  Village  of  Tappan,  Encampment,  and  adjoining 
Country.     Time,  ten  hours. 


ANDR£ 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.   A  Wood  seen  by   starlight;   an  Encampment  at  a  dis 
tance  appearing  between  the  trees. 

Enter  MELVILLE. 

MELVILLE. 

The  solemn  hour,  "when  night  and  morning  meet," 
Mysterious  time,  to  superstition  dear, 
And  superstition's  guides,  now  passes  by; 
Deathlike  in  sofitude.    The  sentinels, 
In  drowsy  tones,  from  post  to  post,  send  on 
The  signal  of  the  passing  hour.    "All's  well," 
Sounds  through  the  camp.    Alas !  all  is  not  well ; 
Else,  why  stand  I,  a  man,  the  friend  of  man, 
At  midnight's  depth,  deck'd  in  this  murderous  guise, 
The  habiliment  of  death,  the  badge  of  dire, 
Necessitous  coercion.    'T  is  not  well. 
— In  vain  the  enlighten'd  friends  of  suffering  man 
Point  out,  of  war,  the  folly,  guilt,  and  madness. 
Still,  age  succeeds  to  age,  and  war  to  war; 
And  man,  the  murderer,  marshalls  out  his  hosts 
In  all  the  gaiety  of  festive  pomp, 
To  spread  around  him  death  and  desolation. 

How  long!  how  long! 

— Methinks  I  hear  the  tread  of  feet  this  way. 

My  meditating  mood  may  work  me  woe.  [Draws. 

Stand,  whoso'er  thou  art.    Answer.    Who's  there? 

Enter  BLAND. 

BLAND. 
A  friend. 

MELVILLE. 

Advance  and  give  the  countersign. 


514  Representative  Plays 

BLAND. 
Hudson. 

MELVILLE. 
What,  Bland! 

BLAND. 
Melville,  my  friend,  you  here? 

MELVILLE. 

And  well,  my  brave  young  friend.    But  why  do  you, 
At  this  dead  hour  of  night,  approach  the  camp, 
On  foot,  and  thus  alone? 

BLAND. 

I  have  but  now 

Dismounted;  and,  from  yon  sequester'd  cot, 
Whose  lonely  taper  through  the  crannied  wall 
Sheds  its  faint  beams,  and  twinkles  midst  the  trees, 
Have  I,  adventurous,  grop'd  my  darksome  way. 
My  servant,  and  my  horses,  spent  with  toil, 
There  wait  till  morn. 

MELVILLE. 

Why  waited  not  yourself? 

BLAND. 

Anxious  to  know  the  truth  of  those  reports 
Which,  from  the  many  mouths  of  busy  Fame, 
Still,  as  I  pass'd,  struck  varying  on  my  ear, 
Each  making  th'  other  void.    Nor  does  delay 
The  colour  of  my  hasteful  business  suit. 
I  bring  dispatches  for  our  great  Commander; 
And  hasted  hither  with  design  to  wait 
His  rising,  or  awake  him  with  the  sun. 

MELVILLE. 

You  will  not  need  the  last,  for  the  blest  sun 
Ne'er  rises  on  his  slumbers;  by  the  dawn 
We  see  him  mounted  gaily  in  the  field, 
Or  find  him  wrapt  in  meditation  deep, 
Planning  the  welfare  of  our  war-worn  land. 

BLAND. 
Prosper,  kind  heaven !  and  recompense  his  cares. 


Andre  515 

MELVILLE. 
You're  from  the  South,  if  I  presume  aright? 

BLAND. 

I  am;  and,  Melville,  I  am  fraught  with  news? 
The  South  teems  with  events;  convulsing  ones: 
The  Briton,  there,  plays  at  no  mimic  war; 
With  gallant  face  he  moves,  and  gallantly  is  met. 
Brave  spirits,  rous'd  by  glory,  throng  our  camp; 
The  hardy  hunter,  skill'd  to  fell  the  deer, 
Or  start  the  sluggish  bear  from  covert  rude ; 
And  not  a  clown  that  comes,  but  from  his  youth 
Is  trained  to  pour  from  far  the  leaden  death, 
To  climb  the  steep,  to  struggle  with  the  stream, 
To  labour  firmly  under  scorching  skies, 
And  bear,  unshrinking,  winter's  roughest  blast. 
This,  and  thai  heaven-inspir'd  enthusiasm 
Which  ever  animates  the  patriot's  breast, 
Shall  far  outweigh  the  lack  of  discipline. 

MELVILLE. 
Justice  is  ours;  what  shall  prevail  against  her? 

BLAND. 

But  as  I  past  along,  many  strange  tales, 
And  monstrous  rumours,  have  my  ears  assail'd: 
That  Arnold  had  prov'd  false;   but  he  was  ta'en, 
And  hung,  or  to  be  hung — I  know  not  what. 
Another  told,  that  all  our  army,  with  their 
Much  lov'd  Chief,  sold  and  betray'd,  were  captur'd. 
But,  as  I  nearer  drew,  at  yonder  cot, 
T  was  said,  that  Arnold,  traitor  like,  had  fled; 
And  that  a  Briton,  tried  and  prov'd  a  spy, 
Was,  on  this  day,  as  such,  to  suffer  death. 

MELVILLE. 

As  you  drew  near,  plain  truth  advanced  to  meet  you. 
'T  is  even  as  you  heard,  my  brave  young  friend. 
Never  had  people  on  a  single  throw 
More  interest  at  stake;  when  he,  who  held 
For  us  the  die,  prov'd  false,  and  play'd  us  foul. 
But  for  a  circumstance  of  that  nice  kind, 


516  Representative  Plays 

Of  cause  so  microscopic,  that  the  tongues 

Of  inattentive  men  call  it  the  effect 

Of  chance,  we  must  have  lost  the  glorious  game. 

BLAND. 
Blest,  blest  be  heaven!  whatever  was  the  cause! 

MELVILLE. 

The  blow  ere  this  had  fallen  that  would  have  bruis'd 
The  tender  plant  which  we  have  striven  to  rear, 
Crush'd  to  the  dust,  no  more  to  bless  this  soil. 

BLAND. 
What  warded  off  the  blow? 

MELVILLE. 

The  brave  young  man,  who  this  day  dies,  was  seiz'd 
Within  our  bounds,  in  rustic  garb  disguis'd. 
He  offer'd  bribes  to  tempt  the  band  that  seiz'd  him ; 
But  the  rough  farmer,  for  his  country  arm'd, 
That  soil  defending  which  his  ploughshare  turn'd, 
Those  laws,  his  father  chose,  and  he  approv'd, 
Cannot,  as  mercenary  soldiers  may, 
Be  brib'd  to  sell  the  public-weal  for  gold. 

BLAND. 

'T  is  well.    Just  heaven!    O,  grant  that  thus  may  fall 

All  those  who  seek  to  bring  this  land  to  woe ! 

All  those,  who,  or  by  open  force,  or  dark 

And  secret  machinations,  seek  to  shake 

The  Tree  of  Liberty,  or  stop  its  growth, 

In  any  soil  where  thou  hast  pleas'd  to  plant  it. 

MELVILLE. 

Yet  not  a  heart  but  pities  and  would  save  him; 
For  all  confirm  that  he  is  brave  and  virtuous; 
Known,  but  till  now,  the  darling  child  of  Honour. 

BLAND  [contemptuously]. 
And  how  is  call'd  this — honourable  spy? 

MELVILLE. 
Andre's  his  name. 


Andre  517 

BLAND  [much  agitated]. 
Andre! 

MELVILLE. 
Aye,  Major  Andre. 

BLAND. 

Andre!  Oh  no,  my  friend,  you're  sure  deceiv'd — 
I'll  pawn  my  life,  my  ever  sacred  fame, 
My  General's  favour,  or  a  soldier's  honour, 
That  gallant  Andre  never  yet  put  on 
The  guise  of  falsehood.    Oh,  it  cannot  be! 

MELVILLE. 

How  might  I  be  deceiv'd?    I've  heard  him,  seen  him, 
And  what  I  tell,  I  tell  from  well-prov'd  knowledge ; 
No  second  tale-bearer,  who  heard  the  news. 

BLAND. 

Pardon  me,  Melville.    Oh,  that  well-known  name, 
So  link'd  with  circumstances  infamous! — 
My  friend  must  pardon  me.    Thou  wilt  not  blame 
When  I  shall  tell  what  cause  I  have  to  love  him : 
What  cause  to  think  him  nothing  more  the  pupil 
Of  Honour  stern,  than  sweet  Humanity. 
Rememberest  thou,  when  cover'd  o'er  with  wounds, 
And  left  upon  the  field,  I  fell  the  prey 
Of  Britain?  To  a  loathsome  prison-ship 
Confin'd,  soon  had  I  sunk,  victim  of  death, 
A  death  of  aggravated  miseries; 
But,  by  benevolence  urg'd,  this  best  of  men, 
This  gallant  youth,  then  favour'd,  high  in  power, 
Sought  out  the  pit  obscene  of  foul  disease, 
Where  I,  and  many  a  suffering  soldier  lay, 
And,  like  an  angel,  seeking  good  for  man, 
Restor'd  us  light,  and  partial  liberty. 
Me  he  mark'd  out  his  own.    He  nurst  and  cur'd, 
He  lov'd  and  made  his  friend.    I  liv'd  by  him, 
And  in  my  heart  he  liv'd,  till,  when  exchang'd, 
Duty  and  honour  call'd  me  from  my  friend. — 
Judge  how  my  heart  is  tortur'd, — Gracious  heaven! 
Thus,  thus  to  meet  him  on  the  brink  of  death — 


518  Representative  Plays 

A  death  so  infamous!    Heav'n  grant  my  prayer.  [Kneels. 

That  I  may  save  him,  O,  inspire  my  heart 

With  thoughts,  my  tongue  with  words  that  move  to  pity! 

[Rises. 
Quick,  Melville,  shew  me  where  my  Andre  lies. 

MELVILLE. 
Good  wishes  go  with  you. 

BLAND. 
I'll  save  my  friend.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE,  the  Encampment,  by  starlight. 
Enter  the  GENERAL,  M' DONALD  and  SEWARD. 

GENERAL. 

T  is  well.    Each  sentinel  upon  his  post 
Stands  firm,  and  meets  me  at  the  bayonet's  point; 
While  in  his  tent  the  weary  soldier  lies, 
The  sweet  reward  of  wholesome  toil  enjoying; 
Resting  secure  as  erst  within  his  cot 
He  careless  slept,  his  rural  labour  o'er; 
Ere  Britons  dar'd  to  violate  those  laws, 
Those  boasted  laws  by  which  themselves  are  govern'd, 
And  strove  to  make  their  fellow-subjects  slaves. 

SEWARD. 
They  know  to  whom  they  owe  their  present  safety. 

GENERAL. 

I  hope  they  know  that  to  themselves  they  owe  it: 
To  that  good  discipline  which  they  observe, 
The  discipline  of  men  to  order  train'd, 
Who  know  its  value,  and  in  whom  't  is  virtue: 
To  that  prompt  hardihood  with  which  they  meet 
Or  toil  or  danger,  poverty  or  death. 
Mankind  who  know  not  whence  that  spirit  springs, 
Which  holds  at  bay  all  Britain's  boasted  power, 
Gaze  on  their  deeds  astonish'd.    See  the  youth 
Start  from  his  plough,  and  straightway  play  the  hero; 
Unmurmuring  bear  such  toils  as  veterans  shun; 


Andre  519 


Rest  all  content  upon  the  dampsome  earth; 

Follow  undaunted  to  the  deathful  charge; 

Or,  when  occasion  asks,  lead  to  the  breach, 

Fearless  of  all  the  unusual  din  of  war, 

His  former  peaceful  mates.    O  patriotism!        ^ 

Thou  wond'rous  principle  of  god-like  action! 

Wherever  liberty  is  found,  there  reigns 

The  love  of  country.    Now  the  self-same  spirit 

Which  fill'd  the  breast  of  great  Leonidas, 

Swells  in  the  hearts  of  thousands  on  these  plains, 

Thousands  who  never  heard  the  hero's  tale. 

T  is  this  alone  which  saves  thee,  O  my  country! 

And,  till  that  spirit  flies  these  western  shores, 

No  power  on  earth  shall  crush  thee ! 

SEWARD. 

'T  is  wond'rous! 

The  men  of  other  climes  from  this  shall  see 
How  easy  't  is  to  shake  oppression  off; 
How  all  resistless  is  an  union'd  people : 
And  hence,  from  our  success  (which,  by  my  soul, 
I  feel  as  much  secur'd,  as  though  our  foes 
Were  now  within  their  floating  prisons  hous'd, 
And  their  proud  prows  all  pointing  to  the  east), 
Shall  other  nations  break  their  galling  fetters, 
And  re-assume  the  dignity  of  man. 

M' DONALD. 

Are  other  nations  in  that  happy  state, 

That,  having  broke  Coercion's  iron  yoke, 

They  can  submit  to  Order's  gentle  voice, 

And  walk  on  earth  self-ruled?    I  much  do  fear  it. 

As  to  ourselves,  in  truth,  I  nothing  see, 

In  all  the  wond'rous  deeds  which  we  perform, 

But  plain  effects  from  causes  full  as  plain. 

Rises  not  man  for  ever  'gainst  oppression? 

It  is  the  law  of  life;  he  can't  avoid  it. 

But  when  the  love  of  property  unites 

With  sense  of  injuries  past,  and  dread  of  future. 

Is  it  then  wonderful,  that  he  should  brave 

A  lesser  evil  to  avoid  a  greater? 


520  Representative  Plays 

GENERAL  [sportively], 

'T  is  hard,  quite  hard,  we  may  not  please  ourselves, 
By  our  great  deeds  ascribing  to  our  virtue. 

SEWARD. 
M' Donald  never  spares  to  lash  our  pride. 

M' DONALD. 

In  truth  I  know  of  nought  to  make  you  proud. 
I  think  there's  none  within  the  camp  that  draws 
With  better  will  his  sword  than  does  M 'Donald. 
I  have  a  home  to  guard.    My  son  is — butcher'd — 

SEWARD. 

Hast  thou  no  nobler  motives  for  thy  arms 
Than  love  of  property  and  thirst  of  vengeance? 

M' DONALD. 

Yes,  my  good  Seward,  and  yet  nothing  wond'rous. 
I  love  this  country  for  the  sake  of  man. 
My  parents,  and  I  thank  them,  cross'd  the  seas, 
And  made  me  native  of  fair  Nature's  world, 
vAVith  room  to  grow  and  thrive  in.    I  have  thriven; 
And  feel  my  mind  unshackled,  free,  expanding, 
Grasping,  with  ken  unbounded,  mighty  thoughts, 
At  which,  if  chance  my  mother  had,  good  dame, 
In  Scotia,  our  revered  parent  soil, 
Given  me  to  see  the  day,  I  should  have  shrunk 
Affrighted.    Now,  I  see  in  this  new  world 
A  resting  spot  for  man,  if  he  can  stand 
Firm  in  his  place,  while  Europe  howls  around  him, 
And  all  unsettled  as  the  thoughts  of  vice, 
Each  nation  in  its  turn  threats  him  with  feeble  malice. 
One  trial,  now,  we  prove;  and  I  have  met  it. 

GENERAL. 
And  met  it  like  a  man,  my  brave  M' Donald. 

M' DONALD. 

I  hope  so;  and  I  hope  my  every  act 
Has  been  the  offspring  of  deliberate  judgment; 
Yet,  feeling  second's  reason's  cool  resolves. 


Andre  521 

Oh !  I  could  hate,  if  I  did  not  more  pity, 

These  bands  of  mercenary  Europeans, 

So  wanting  in  the  common  sense  of  nature, 

As,  without  shame,  to  sell  themselves  for  pelf, 

To  aid  the  cause  of  darkness,  murder  man — 

Without  inquiry  murder,  and  yet  call 

Their  trade  the  trade  of  honour — high-soul'd  honour — 

Yet  honour  shall  accord  in  act  with  falsehood. 

Oh,  that  proud  man  should  e'er  descend  to  play 

The  tempter's  part,  and  lure  men  to  their  ruin ! 

Deceit  and  honour  badly  pair  together. 

SEWARD. 

LJ^    i/ 

You  have  much  shew  of  reason;  yet,  methinks 
What  you  suggest  of  one,  whom  fickle  Fortune, 
In  her  changeling  mood,  hath  hurl'd,  unpitying, 
From  her  topmost  height  to  lowest  misery, 
Tastes  not  of  charity.    Andre,  I  mean. 

M' DONALD. 

I  mean  him,  too;  sunk  by  misdeed,  not  fortune. 
Fortune  and  chance,  Oh,  most  convenient  words! 
Man  runs  the  wild  career  of  blind  ambition, 
Plunges  in  vice,  takes  falsehood  for  his  buoy, 
And  when  he  feels  the  waves  of  ruin  o'er  him, 
Curses,  in  "good  set  terms,"  poor  Lady  Fortune. 

GENERAL  [sportively  to  SEWARD]. 
His  mood  is  all  untoward;  let  us  leave  him. 
Tho'  he  may  think  that  he  is  bound  to  rail, 
We  are  not  bound  to  hear  him.  [To  M 'DONALD. 

Grant  you  that? 

M' DONALD. 
Oh,  freely,  freely!  you  I  never  rail  on. 

GENERAL. 
No  thanks  for  that;  you've  courtesy  for  office. 

M' DONALD. 
You  slander  me. 

GENERAL. 

Slander  that  would  not  wound. 
Worthy  M'Donald,  though  it  suits  full  well 


522  Representative  Plays 

The  virtuous  man  to  frown  on  all  misdeeds; 

Yet  ever  keep  in  mind  that  man  is  frail ; 

His  tide  of  passion  struggling  still  with  Reason's 

Fair  and  favourable  gale,  and  adverse 

Driving  his  unstable  Bark  upon  the 

Rocks  of  error.    Should  he  sink  thus  shipwreck'd, 

Sure  it  is  not  Virtue's  voice  that  triumphs 

In  his  ruin.    I  must  seek  rest.    Adieu! 

[Exeunt  GENERAL  and  SEWARD. 

M' DONALD. 

Both  good  and  great  thou  art:   first  among  men: 
By  nature,  or  by  early  habit,  grac'd 
With  that  blest  quality  which  gives  due  force 
To  every  faculty,  and  keeps  the  mind 
In  healthful  equipoise,  ready  for  action; 
Invaluable  temperance — by  all 
To  be  acquired,  yet  scarcely  known  to  any.  [Exit. 

End  of  the  First  Act. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE,  a  Prison. 

ANDRE,  discovered  in  a  pensive  posture,  sitting  at  a  table;  a  book 
by  him  and  candles:  his  dress  neglected,  his  hair  dishevelled: 
he  rises  and  comes  forward. 

ANDRE. 

Kind  heaven  be  thank'd  for  that  I  stand  alone 
In  this  sad  hour  of  life's  brief  pilgrimage! 
Single  in  misery;  no  one  else  involving, 
In  grief,  in  shame,  and  ruin.    'T  is  my  comfort. 
Thou,  my  thrice  honour'd  sire,  in  peace  went'st  down 
Unto  the  tomb,  nor  knew  to  blush,  nor  knew 
A  pang  for  me!    And  thou,  revered  matron, 
Couldst  bless  thy  child,  and  yield  thy  breath  in  peace! 
No  wife  shall  weep,  no  child  lament,  my  loss. 
Thus  may  I  consolation  find  in  what 
Was  once  my  woe.    I  little  thought  to  joy 
In  not  possessing,  as  I  erst  possest, 


Andre  523 

Thy  love,  Honora!  Andre's  death,  perhaps, 
May  cause  a  cloud  pass  o'er  thy  lovely  face; 
The  pearly  tear  may  steal  from  either  eye; 
For  thou  mayest  feel  a  transient  pang,  nor  wrong 
A  husband's  rights:  more  than  a  transient  pang 

0  mayest  thou  never  feel !    The  morn  draws  nigh 
To  light  me  to  my  shame.    Frail  nature  shrinks. — 
And  is  death  then  so  fearful?    I  have  brav'd 
Him,  fearless,  in  the  field,  and  steel'd  my  breast 
Against  his  thousand  horrors;  but  his  cool, 

His  sure  approach,  requires  a  fortitude 

Which  nought  but  conscious  rectitude  can  give. 

[Retires,  and  sits  leaning. 

Enter  BLAND  unperceived  by  ANDRE. 

BLAND. 

And  is  that  Andre!    Oh,  how  chang'd!  Alas! 
Where"  is  that  martial  fire,  that  generous  warmth, 
Which  glow'd  his  manly  countenance  throughout, 
And  gave  to  every  look,  to  every  act, 
The  tone  of  high  chivalrous  animation? — 
Andre,  my  friend!  look  up. 

ANDRE. 
Who  calls  me  friend? 

BLAND. 

Young  Arthur  Bland. 

ANDRE  [rising]. 
That  name  sounds  like  a  friend's.  [With  emotion. 

1  have  inquir'd  for  thee — wish'd  much  to  see  thee — 
I  prithee  take  no  note  of  these  fool's  tears — 

My  heart  was  full — and  seeing  thee — 

BLAND  [embracing  him]. 

O  Andre!— 

I  have  but  now  arrived  from  the  south — 
Nor  heard — till  now — of  this — I  cannot  speak. 
Is  this  a  place? — Oh,  thus  to  find  my  friend! 

ANDRE. 

Still  dost  thou  call  me  friend?    I,  who  dared  act 
Against  my  reason,  my  declared  opinion; 


524  Representative  Plays 

Against  my  conscience,  and  a  soldier's  fame? 
Oft  in  the  generous  heat  of  glowing  youth, 
Oft  have  I  said  how  fully  I  despis'd 
All  bribery  base,  all  treacherous  tricks  in  war: 
Rather  my  blood  should  bathe  these  hostile  shores, 
And  have  it  said,  "he  died  a  gallant  soldier," 
Than  with  my  country's  gold  encourage  treason, 
And  thereby  purchase  gratitude  and  fame. 

BLAND. 
Still  mayest  thou  say  it,  for  thy  heart's  the  same. 

ANDRE. 

Still  is  my  heart  the  same:  still  may  I  say  it: 
But  now  my  deeds  will  rise  against  my  words; 
And  should  I  dare  to  talk  of  honest  truth, 
Frank  undissembling  probity  and  faith, 
Memory  would  crimson  o'er  my  burning  cheek, 
And  actions  retrospected  choke  the  tale. 
Still  is  my  heart  the  same.    But  there  has  past 
A  day,  an  hour —  which  ne'er  can  be  recall'd! 
Unhappy  man!  tho'  all  thy  life  pass  pure; 
Mark'd  by  benevolence  thy  every  deed; 
The  out-spread  map,  which  shews  the  way  thou'st  trod, 
Without  one  devious  track,  or  doubtful  line; 
It  all  avails  thee  nought,  if  in  one  hour, 
One  hapless  hour,  thy  feet  are  led  astray; — 
Thy  happy  deeds,  all  blotted  from  remembrance; 
Cancel 'd  the  record  of  thy  former  good. 
Is  it  not  hard,  my  friend?    Is  't  not  unjust? 

BLAND. 

Not  every  record  cancel'd — Oh,  there  are  hearts, 
Where  Virtue's  image,  when  't  is  once  engrav'd, 
Can  never  know  erasure. 

ANDRE. 

Generous  Bland!  [Takes  his  hand. 

The  hour  draws  nigh  which  ends  my  life's  sad  story. 
I  should  be  firm — 

BLAND. 

By  heaven  thou  shalt  not  die! 
Thou  dost  not  sure  deserve  it.    Betray'd,  perhaps — 


Andre  525 

Condemn'd  without  due  circumstance  made  known? 
Thou  didst  not  mean  to  tempt  our  officers? 
Betray  our  yeoman  soldiers  to  destruction? 
Silent.    Nay,  then  't  was  from  a  duteous  wish 
To  serve  the  cause  thou  wast  in  honour  bound — 

ANDRE. 

Kind  is  my  Bland,  who  to  his  generous  heart, 
Still  finds  excuses  for  his  erring  friend. 
Attentive  hear  and  judge  me. — 
Pleas'd  with  the  honours  daily  shower'd  upon  me, 
I  glow'd  with  martial  heat,  my  name  to  raise 
Above  the  vulgar  herd,  who  live  to  die, 
And  die  to  be  forgotten.    Thus  I  stood, 
When,  avarice  or  ambition  Arnold  tempted, 
His  country,  fame,  and  honour  to  betray; 
Linking  his  name  to  infamy  eternal. 
In  confidence  it  was  to  be  propos'd, 
To  plan  with  him  the  means  which  should  ensure 
Thy  country's  downfall.    Nothing  then  I  saw 
But  confidential  favour  in  the  service, 
My  country's  glory,  and  my  mounting  fame; 
Forgot  my  former  purity  of  thought, 
And  high-ton'd  honour's  scruples  disregarded. 

BLAND. 
It  was  thy  duty  so  to  serve  thy  country. 

ANDRE. 

Nay,  nay;  be  cautious  ever  to  admit 
That  duty  can  beget  dissimulation. 
On  ground,  unoccupied  by  either  part, 
Neutral  esteem'd,  I  landed,  and  was  met. 
But  ere  my  conference  was  with  Arnold  clos'd, 
The  day  began  to  dawn :   I  then  was  told 
That  till  the  night  I  must  my  safety  seek 
In  close  concealment.    Within  your  posts  convey'd, 
I  found  myself  involv'd  in  unthought  dangers. 
Night  came.    I  sought  the  vessel  which  had  borne 
Me  to  the  fatal  spot;  but  she  was  gone. 
Retreat  that  way  cut  off,  again  I  sought 
Concealment  with  the  traitors  of  your  army. 


526  Representative  Plays 

Arnold  now  granted  passes,  and  I  doff  d 
My  martial  garb,  and  put  on  curs'd  disguise! 
Thus  in  a  peasant's  form  I  pass'd  your  posts; 
And  when,  as  I  conceiv'd,  my  danger  o'er, 
Was  stopt  and  seiz'd  by  some  returning  scouts. 
So  did  ambition  lead  me,  step  by  step, 
To  treat  with  traitors,  and  encourage  treason; 
And  then,  bewilder'd  in  the  guilty  scene, 
To  quit  my  martial  designating  badges, 
Deny  my  name,  and  sink  into  the  spy. 

BLAND. 

Thou  didst  no  more  than  was  a  soldier's  duty, 
To  serve  the  part  on  which  he  drew  his  sword. 
Thou  shalt  not  die  for  this.    Straight  will  I  fly — 
I  surely  shall  prevail — 

ANDRE. 
It  is  in  vain. 
All  has  been  tried.    Each  friendly  argument — 

BLAND. 

All  has  not  yet  been  tried.    The  powerful  voice 
Of  friendship  in  thy  cause,  has  not  been  heard. 
My  General  favours  me,  and  loves  my  father — 
My  gallant  father!  would  that  he  were  here! 
But  he,  perhaps,  now  wants  an  Andre's  care, 
To  cheer  his  hours — perhaps,  now  languishes 
Amidst  those  horrors  whence  thou  sav'd'st  his  son! 
The  present  moment  claims  my  thought.    Andre — 
I  fly  to  save  thee ! — 

ANDRE. 

Bland,  it  is  in  vain. 
But,  hold — there  is  a  service  thou  may'st  do  me. 

BLAND. 
Speak  it. 

ANDRE. 

Oh,  think,  and  as  a  soldier  think, 
How  I  must  die — The  manner  of  my  death — 
Like  the  base  ruffian,  or  the  midnight  thief, 
Ta'en  in  the  act  of  stealing  from  the  poor, 


Andre  527 

To  be  turn'd  off  the  felon's — murderer's  cart, 
A  mid-air  spectacle  to  gaping  clowns : — 
To  run  a  short,  an  envied  course  of  glory, 
And  end  it  on  a  gibbet. 

BLAND. 
Damnation ! ! 

ANDRE. 

Such  is  my  doom.    Oh!  have  the  manner  changed, 
And  of  mere  death  I'll  think  not.    Dost  thou  think — ? 
Perhaps  thou  canst  gain  that ? 

BLAND  [almost  in  a  frenzy]. 
Thou  shalt  not  die! 

ANDRE. 

Let  me,  Oh !  let  me  die  a  soldier's  death, 
While  friendly  clouds  of  smoke  shroud  from  all  eyes 
My  last  convulsive  pangs,  and  I'm  content. 

BLAND  [with  increasing  emotion]. 
Thou  shalt  not  die!  Curse  on  the  laws  of  war! — 
If  worth  like  thine  must  thus  be  sacrificed, 
To  policy  so  cruel  and  unjust, 
I  will  forswear  my  country  and  her  service: 
I'll  hie  me  to  the  Briton,  and  with  fire, 
And  sword,  and  every  instrument  of  death 
Or  devastation,  join  in  the  work  of  war! 
What,  shall  worth  weigh  for  nought?    I  will  avenge  thee! 

ANDRE. 

Hold,  hold,  my  friend;   thy  country's  woes  are  full. 
What!  wouldst  thou  make  me  cause  another  traitor? 
No  more  of  this;   and,  if  I  die,  believe  me, 
Thy  country  for  my  death  incurs  no  blame. 
Restrain  thy  ardour — but  ceaselessly  intreat, 
That  Andre  may  at  least  die  as  he  lived, 
A  soldier. 

BLAND. 

By  heaven  thou  shalt  not  die ! — 

[BLAND  rushes  off:   ANDRE  looks  after  him  with  an  expression 
of  love  and  gratitude,  then  retires  up  the  stage.    Scene  closes.  ] 


528  Representative  Plays 

SCENE,  the  GENERAL'S  Quarters. 
Enter  M' DONALD  and  SEWARD,  in  conversation. 

M '  DONALD  [coining  forward]. 

Three  thousand  miles  the  Atlantic  wave  rolls  on, 
Which  bathed  Columbia's  shores,  ere,  on  the  strand 
Of  Europe,  or  of  Afric,  their  continents, 
Or  sea-girt  isles,  it  chafes. — 

SEWARD. 

Oh !  would  to  heaven 

That  in  mid-way  between  these  sever'd  worlds, 
Rose  barriers,  all  impassable  to  man, 
Cutting  off  intercourse,  till  either  side 
Had  lost  all  memory  of  the  other ! 

M' DONALD. 
What  spur  now  goads  thy  warm  imagination? 

SEWARD. 

Then  might,  perhaps,  one  land  on  earth  be  found, 
Free  from  th'  extremes  of  poverty  and  riches; 
Where  ne'er  a  scepter'd  tyrant  should  be  known, 
Or  tyrant  lordling,  curses  of  creation; — 
Where  the  faint  shrieks  of  woe-exhausted  age, 
Raving,  in  feeble  madness,  o'er  the  corse 
Of  a  polluted  daughter,  stained  by  lust 
Of  viand-pamper'd  luxury,  might  ne'er  be  heard; — 
Where  the  blasted  form  of  much  abused 
Beauty,  by  villainy  seduced,  by  knowledge 
All  unguarded,  might  ne'er  be  view'd,  flitting 
Obscene,  'tween  lamp  and  lamp,  i'  th'  midnight  street 
Of  all  defiling  city;  where  the  child 

M' DONALD. 

Hold !  Shroud  thy  raven  imagination ! 
Torture  not  me  with  images  so  curst! 

SEWARD. 

Soon  shall  our  foes,  inglorious,  fly  these  shores. 
Peace  shall  again  return.  Then  Europe's  ports 
Shall  pour  a  herd  upon  us,  far  more  fell 


Andre  529 

Than  those,  her  mercenary  sons,  who,  now, 
Threaten  our  sore  chastisement. 

M' DONALD. 

Prophet  of  ill, 

Prom  Europe  shall  enriching  commerce  flow, 
And  many  an  ill  attendant;  but  from  thence 
Shall  likewise  flow  blest  Science.    Europe's  knowledge, 
By  sharp  experience  bought,  we  should  appropriate; 
Striving  thus  to  leap  from  that  simplicity, 
With  ignorance  curst,  to  that  simplicity, 
By  knowledge  blest;   unknown  the  gulf  between. 

SEWARD. 
Mere  theoretic  dreaming ! 

M' DONALD 

Blest  wisdom 

Seems,  from  out  the  chaos  of  the  social  world, 
Where  good  and  ill,  in  strange  commixture,  float, 
To  rise,  by  strong  necessity,  impell'd; 
Starting,  like  Love  divine,  from  womb  of  Night, 
Illuming  all,  to  order  all  reducing; 
And  shewing,  by  its  bright  and  noontide  blaze, 
That  happiness  alone  proceeds  from  justice. 

SEWARD. 
Dreams,  dreams!  Man  can  know  nought  but  ill  on  earth 

M' DONALD. 

I'll  to  my  bed,  for  I  have  watch'd  all  night; 
And  may  my  sleep  give  pleasing  repetition 
Of  these  my  waking  dreams !    Virtue's  incentives.  [Exit. 

SEWARD. 
Folly's  chimeras  rather:  guides  to  error. 

Enter  BLAND,  preceded  by  a  SERGEANT. 

SERGEANT. 
Pacquets  for  the  General.  [Exit. 

BLAND. 
Seward,  my  friend! 


53°  Representative  Plays 

SEWARD. 

Captain!  I'm  glad  to  see  the  hue  of  health 
Sit  on  a  visage  from  the  sallow  south. 

BLAND. 

The  lustihood  of  youth  hath  yet  defied 
The  parching  sun,  and  chilling  dew  of  even. 
The  General — Seward — ? 

SEWARD. 
I  will  lead  you  to  him. 

BLAND. 

Seward,  I  must  make  bold.    Leave  us  together, 
When  occasion  offers.    'T  will  be  friendly. 

SEWARD. 
I  will  not  cross  your  purpose.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE,  A  Chamber. 

Enter  MRS.  BLAND. 

MRS.  BLAND. 

Yes,  ever  be  this  day  a  festival 
In  my  domestic  calendar.    This  morn 
Will  see  my  husband  free.    Even  now,  perhaps, 
Ere  yet  Aurora  flies  the  eastern  hills, 
Shunning  the  sultry  sun,  my  Bland  embarks. 
Already,  on  the  Hudson's  dancing  wave, 
He  chides  the  sluggish  rowers,  or  supplicates 
For  gales  propitious;   that  his  eager  arms 
May  clasp  his  wife,  may  bless  his  little  ones. 
Oh !  how  the  tide  of  joy  makes  my  heart  bound, 
Glowing  with  high  and  ardent  expectation ! 

Enter  two  CHILDREN. 

ist  CHILD. 
Here  we  are,  Mama,  up,  and  dress'd  already. 

MRS.  BLAND. 
And  why  were  ye  so  early? 


Andre  531 

ist  CHILD. 
Why,  did  not  you  tell  us  that  Papa  was  to  be  home  to-day? 

MRS.  BLAND. 
I  said,  perhaps. 

2nd  CHILD  [disappointed]. 
Perhaps! 

ist  CHILD. 
I  don't  like  perhaps's. 

2nd  CHILD. 
No,  nor  I  neither;  nor  "may  be  so's." 

MRS.  BLAND. 

We  make  not  certainties,  my  pretty  loves; 
I  do  not  like  "perhaps's"  more  than  you  do. 

2nd  CHILD. 

Oh!  don't  say  so,  Mama!  for  I'm  sure  I  hardly  ever  ask  you 
anything  but  you  answer  me  with  "may  be  so,"  "perhaps," 
— or  "very  likely."  "Mama,  shall  I  go  to  the  camp  to-morrow, 
and  see  the  General?"  "May  be  so,  my  dear."  Hang  "may  be 
so,"  say  I. 

MRS.  BLAND. 
Well  said,  Sir  Pertness. 

ist  CHILD. 

But  I  am  sure,  Mama,  you  said,  that,  to-day,  Papa  would  have 
his  liberty. 

MRS.  BLAND. 
So,  your  dear  father,  by  his  letters,  told  me. 

2nd  CHILD. 

Why,  then,  I  am  sure  he  will  be  here  to-day.  When  he  can  come 
to  us,  I'm  sure  he  will  not  stay  among  those  strange  Englishmen 
and  Hessians.  I  often  wish'd  that  I  had  wings  to  fly,  for  then  I 
would  soon  be  with  him. 

MRS.  BLAND. 
Dear  boy! 


532  Representative  Plays 

Enter  SERVANT  and  gives  a  letter  to  MRS.  BLAND. 

SERVANT. 

An  express,   madam,    from  New- York  to  Headquarters,    in 
passing,  delivered  this. 

2nd  CHILD. 

Papa's  coming  home  to-day,  John. 

[Exeunt  SERVANT  and  CHILDREN. 

MRS.  BLAND. 

What  fears  assail  me !    Oh !  I  did  not  want 

A  letter  now !    [She  reads  in  great  agitation,  exclaiming,  while  her 

eyes  are  fixed  on  the  paper.  ] 
My  husband!  doom'd  to  die!    Retaliation! 

[She  looks  forward  with  wildness,  consternation  and  horror. 
To  die,  if  Andre  dies!    He  dies  to-day! — 
My  husband  to  be  murdered !    And  to-day ! 
To-day,  if  Andre  dies!    Retaliation! 

0  curst  contrivance! — Madness  relieve  me! 
Burst,  burst,  my  brain ! — Yet — Andre  is  not  dead : 

My  husband  lives.     [Looks  at  the  letter.]    "One  man  has  power." 

1  fly  to  save  the  father  of  my  children ! 

[Rushes  out. 
End  of  the  Second  Act. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE,  the  GENERAL'S  Quarters. 
The  GENERAL  and  BLAND  come  forward. 

GENERAL  [papers  in  his  hand]. 
Captain,  you  are  noted  here  with  honourable 
Praises.    Depend  upon  that  countenance 
From  me,  which  you  have  prov'd  yourself  so  richly 
Meriting.    Both  for  your  father's  virtues, 
And  your  own,  your  country  owes  you  honour — 
The  sole  return  the  poor  can  make  for  service. 

BLAND. 

If  from  my  country  ought  I've  merited, 
Or  gain'd  the  approbation  of  her  champion, 


Andre  533 

At  any  other  time,  I  should  not  dare, 
Presumptuously,  to  shew  my  sense  of  it; 
But  now,  my  tongue,  all  shameless,  dares  to  name 
The  boon,  the  precious  recompense,  I  wish, 
Which,  granted,  pays  all  service,  past  or  future, 
O'erpays  the  utmost  I  can  e'er  achieve. 

GENERAL. 
Brief,  my  young  friend,  briefly,  your  purpose. 

BLAND. 

If  I  have  done  my  duty  as  a  soldier; 
If  I  have  brav'd  all  dangers  for  my  country; 
If  my  brave  father  has  deserved  ought; 
Call  all  to  mind — and  cancel  all — but  grant 
My  one  request — mine,  and  humanity's. 

GENERAL. 

Be  less  profuse  of  words,  and  name  your  wish; 
If  fit,  its  fitness  is  the  best  assurance 
That  not  in  vain  you  sue;  but,  if  unjust, 
Thy  merits,  nor  the  merits  of  thy  race, 
Cannot  its  nature  alter,  nor  my  mind, 
From  its  determined  opposition  change. 

BLAND. 

You  hold  the  fate  of  my  most  lov'd  of  friends; 
As  gallant  soldier  as  e'er  faced  a  foe, 
Bless'd  with  each  polish'd  gift  of  social  life, 
And  every  virtue  of  humanity. 
To  me,  a  saviour  from  the  pit  of  death, 
To  me,  and  many  more  my  countrymen. 
Oh!  could  my  words  portray  him  what  he  is; 
Bring  to  your  mind  the  blessings  of  his  deeds, 
While  thro'  the  fever-heated,  loathsome  holds, 
Of  floating  hulks,  dungeons  obscene,  where  ne'er 
The  dewy  breeze  of  morn,  or  evening's  coolness, 
Breath'd  on  our  parching  skins,  he  pass'd  along, 
Diffusing  blessings;  still  his  power  exerting, 
To  alleviate  the  woes  which  ruthless  war, 
Perhaps,  thro'  dire  necessity,  heap'd  on  us; 
Surely,  the  scene  would  move  you  to  forget 


\ 


534  Representative  Plays 


His  late  intent — (tho'  only  serving  then, 
As  duty  prompted) — and  turn  the  rigour 
Of  War's  iron  law  from  him,  the  best  of  men, 
Meant  only  for  the  worst. 


i 


GENERAL. 
Captain,  no  more. 

BLAND. 

If  Andre  lives,  the  prisoner  finds  a  friend; 
Else  helpless  and  forlorn — 
All  men  will  bless  the  act,  and  bless  thee  for  it. 

GENERAL. 

Think'st  thou  thy  country  would  not  curse  the  man, 
Who,  by  a  clemency  ill-tim'd,  ill-judg'd, 
Encourag'd  treason?    That  pride  encourag'd, 
Which,  by  denying  us  the  rights  of  nations, 
Hath  caus'd  those  ills  which  thou  hast  now  portray'd? 
Our  prisoners,  brave  and  generous  peasantry, 
As  rebels  have  been  treated,  not  as  men. 
'T  is  mine,  brave  yeomen,  to  assert  your  rights; 
T  is  mine  to  teach  the  foe,  that,  though  array'd 
In  rude  simplicity,  ye,  yet,  are  men, 
And  rank  among  the  foremost.    Oft  their  scouts, 
The  very  refuse  of  the  English  arms, 
Unquestion'd,  have  our  countrymen  consign'd 
To  death,  when  captur'd,  mocking  their  agonies. 

BLAND. 
Curse  them!     [Checking  himself.]    Yet  let  not  censure  fall  on 

Andre. 

Oh,  there  are  Englishmen  as  brave,  as  good, 
As  ever  land  on  earth  might  call  its  own; 
And  gallant  Andre  is  among  the  best ! 

GENERAL. 

Since  they  have  hurl'd  war  on  us,  we  must  shew 
That  by  the  laws  of  war  we  will  abide ; 
And  have  the  power  to  bring  their  acts  for  trial, 
To  that  tribunal,  eminent  'mongst  men, 
Erected  by  the  policy  of  nations, 
To  stem  the  flood  of  ills,  which  else  fell  war 


Andre  535 

Would  pour,  unchecked,  upon  the  sickening  world, 
Sweeping  away  all  trace  of  civil  life. 

BLAND. 

To  pardon  him  would  not  encourage  ill. 
His  case  is  singular :  his  station  high ; 
His  qualities  admired ;  his  virtues  lov'd. 

GENERAL. 

No  more,  my  good  young  friend :  it  is  in  vain. 
The  men  entrusted  with  thy  country's  rights 
Have  weigh'd,  attentive,  every  circumstance. 
An  individual's  virtue  is,  by  them, 
As  highly  prized  as  it  can  be  by  thee. 
I  know  the  virtues  of  this  man,  and  love  them. 
But  the  destiny  of  millions,  millions 
Yet  unborn,  depends  upon  the  rigour 
Of  this  moment.    The  haughty  Briton  laughs 
To  scorn  our  armies  and  our  councils.    Mercy, 
Humanity,  call  loudly,  that  we  make 
Our  now  despised  power  be  felt,  vindictive. 
Millions  demand  the  death  of  this  young  man. 
My  injur'd  country,  he  his  forfeit  life 
Must  yield,  to  shield  thy  lacerated  breast 
From  torture.     [To  BLAND.]    Thy  merits  are  not  overlook'd. 
Promotion  shall  immediately  attend  thee. 

BLAND  [with  contemptuous  irony]. 
Pardon  me,  sir,  I  never  shall  deserve  it. 
[With  increasing  heat.]    The  country  that  forgets  to  reverence 

virtue; 

That  makes  no  difference  'twixt  the  sordid  wretch, 
Who,  for  reward,  risks  treason's  penalty, 
And  him  unfortunate,  whose  duteous  service 
Is,  by  mere  accident,  so  chang'd  in  form, 
As  to  assume  guilt's  semblance,  I  serve  not: 
Scorn  to  serve.    I  have  a  soldier's  honour, 
But  't  is  in  union  with  a  freeman's  judgment, 
And  when  I  act,  both  prompt.    Thus  from  my  helm 
I  tear,  what  once  I  proudly  thought,  the  badge 
Of  virtuous  fellowship.     [Tears  the  cockade  from  his  helmet.]    My 

sword  I  keep.    [Puts  on  his  helmet.  ] 


Representative  Plays 

Would,  Andre,  thou  hadst  never  put  thine  off! 

Then  hadst  thou  through  opposers'  hearts  made  way 

To  liberty,  or  bravely  pierc'd  thine  own !  [Exit. 

GENERAL. 

Rash,  headstrong,  maddening  boy! 
Had  not  this  action  past  without  a  witness, 
Duty  would  ask  that  thou  shouldst  rue  thy  folly — 
But,  for  the  motive,  be  the  deed  forgotten.  [Exit. 

SCENE,  a  Village. 

At  a  distance  some  tents.    In  front  muskets,  drums,  and  other  indi 
cations  of  soldiers'  quarters. 

Enter  MRS.  BLAND  and  CHILDREN,  attended  by  MELVILLE. 

MELVILLE. 

The  General's  doors  to  you  are  ever  open. 
But  why,  my  worthy  friend,  this  agitation? 
Our  Colonel,  your  husband 

MRS.  BLAND  [in  tears,  gives  him  the  letter}. 
Read,  Melville 

ist  CHILD. 

Do  not  cry,  Mama,  for  I'm  sure  if  Papa  said  he  would  come 
home  to-day  he  will  come  yet :  for  he  always  does  what  he  says 
he  will. 

MRS.  BLAND. 
He  cannot  come,  dear  love;  they  will  not  let  him. 

2nd  CHILD. 
Why,  then,  they  told  him  lies.    Oh,  fie  upon  them! 

MELVILLE  [returning  the  letter]. 
Fear  nothing,  Madam,  't  is  an  empty  threat: 
A  trick  of  policy.    They  dare  not  do  it. 

MRS.  BLAND. 

Alas!  alas!  what  dares  not  power  to  do? 
What  art  of  reasoning,  or  what  magic  words, 
Can  still  the  storm  of  fears  these  lines  have  rais'd? 
The  wife's,  the  mother's  fears?    Ye  innocents, 


Andre  537 

Unconscious  on  the  brink  of  what  a  perilous 

Precipice  ye  stand,  unknowing  that  to-day 

Ye  are  cast  down  the  gulf,  poor  babes,  ye  weep 

From  sympathy.    Children  of  sorrow,  nurst, 

Nurtur'd,  midst  camps  and  arms;   unknowing  man, 

But  as  man's  fell  destroyer;  must  ye  now, 

To  crown  your  piteous  fate,  be  fatherless? 

O,  lead  me,  lead  me  to  him!    Let  me  kneel, 

Let  these,  my  children,  kneel,  till  Andre,  pardon'd, 

Ensures  to  me  a  husband,  them  a  father. 

MELVILLE. 

Madam,  duty  forbids  further  attendance. 
I  am  on  guard  to-day.    But  see  your  son; 
To  him  I  leave  your  guidance.    Good  wishes 
Prosper  you !  [&&  MELVILLE. 

Enter  BLAND. 

MRS.  BLAND. 
My  Arthur,  O  my  Arthur! 

BLAND. 
My  mother!  [Embracing  her. 

MRS.  BLAND. 

My  son,  I  have  been  wishing 
For  you [Bursts  into  tears,  unable  to  proceed. 

BLAND. 

But  whence  this  grief,  these  tears,  my  mother? 
Why  are  these  little  cheeks  bedew'd  with  sorrow? 

[He  kisses  the  children,  who  exclaim,  Brother,  brother! 
Have  I  done  ought  to  cause  a  mother's  sadness? 

MRS.  BLAND. 

No,  my  brave  boy!    I  oft  have  fear'd,  but  never 
Sorrow'd  for  thee. 

BLAND. 

High  praise! — Then  bless  me,  Madam; 

For  I  have  pass'd  through  many  a  bustling  scene 

Since  I  have  seen  a  father  or  a  mother. 


538  Representative  Plays 

MRS.  BLAND. 

Bless  thee,  my  boy!    O  bless  him,  bless  him,  Heaven! 
Render  him  worthy  to  support  these  babes! 
So  soon,  perhaps,  all  fatherless — dependent. — 

BLAND. 
What  mean'st  thou,  madam?    Why  these  tears? 

MRS.  BLAND. 
Thy  father 

BLAND. 

A  prisoner  of  war — I  long  have  known  it — 
But  made  so  without  blemish  to  his  honour, 
And  soon  exchang'd,  returns  unto  his  friends, 
To  guard  these  little  ones,  and  point  and  lead, 
To  virtue  and  to  glory. 

MRS.  BLAND. 

Never,  never! 

His  life,  a  sacrifice  to  Andre's  manes,1 
Must  soon  be  offer'd.    Even  now,  endungeon'd, 
Like  a  vile  felon,  on  the  earth  he  lies, 
His  death  expecting.    Andre's  execution 
Gives  signal  for  the  murder  of  thy  father — 
Andre  now  dies! — 

BLAND  [despairingly]. 

My  father  and  my  friend!! 

MRS.  BLAND. 

There  is  but  one  on  earth  can  save  my  husband — 
But  one  can  pardon  Andre. 

BLAND. 

Haste,  my  mother! 

Thou  wilt  prevail.    Take  with  thee  in  each  hand 
An  unoffending  child  of  him  thou  weep'st. 
Save — save  them  both !    This  way — haste — lean  on  me. 

[Exeunt. 

i  Spirit  of  the  dead;  shade. 


Andre  539 

SCENE,  the  GENERAL'S  Quarters. 
Enter  the  GENERAL  and  M 'DONALD. 

GENERAL. 

Here  have  I  intimation  from  the  foe, 
That  still  they  deem  the  spy  we  have  condemn'd, 
Merely  a  captive ;  by  the  laws  of  arms 
From  death  protected;  and  retaliation, 
As  they  term  it,  threaten,  if  we  our  purpose  hold. 
Bland  is  the  victim  they  have  singled  out, 
Hoping  his  threaten'd  death  will  Andre  save. 

M' DONALD. 

If  I  were  Bland  I  boldly  might  advise 
My  General  how  to  act.    Free,  and  in  safety, 
I  will  now  suppose  my  counsel  needless. 

Enter  an  AMERICAN  OFFICER. 

OFFICER. 

Another  flag  hath  from  the  foe  arriv'd, 
And  craves  admittance. 

GENERAL. 

Conduct  it  hither.  [Exit  OFFICER. 

Let  us,  unwearied  hear,  unbias'd  judge, 
Whate'er  against  our  martial  court's  decision, 
Our  enemies  can  bring. 

Enter  BRITISH  OFFICER,  conducted  by  the  AMERICAN  OFFICER. 

GENERAL. 

You  are  welcome,  sir. 
What  further  says  Sir  Henry? 

BRITISH  OFFICER. 
This  from  him. 

He  calls  on  you  to  think  what  weighty  woes 
You  now  are  busy  bringing  on  your  country. 
He  bids  me  say,  that,  if  your  sentence  reach 
The  prisoner's  life  (prisoner  of  arms  he  deems  him, 
And  no  spy),  on  him  alone  it  falls  not. 
He  bids  me  loud  proclaim  it,  and  declare, 


54°  Representative  Plays 

If  this  brave  officer,  by  cruel  mockery 
Of  war's  stern  law,  and  justice's  feign'd  pretence, 
Be  murder'd ;  the  sequel  of  our  strife,  bloody, 
Unsparing  and  remorseless,  you  will  make. 
Think  of  the  many  captives  in  our  power. 
Already  one  is  mark'd ;  for  Andre  mark'd ; — 
And  when  his  death,  unparallel'd  in  war, 
The  signal  gives,  then  Colonel  Bland  must  die. 

GENERAL. 

'T  is  well,  sir;  bear  this  message  in  return. 
Sir  Henry  Clinton  knows  the  laws  of  arms: 
He  is  a  soldier,  and,  I  think,  a  brave  one. 
The  prisoners  he  retains  he  must  account  for. 
Perhaps  the  reckoning's  near.    I,  likewise,  am 
A  soldier;  entrusted  by  my  country. 
What  I  shall  judge  most  for  that  country's  good, 
That  shall  I  do.    When  doubtful,  I  consult 
My  country's  friends;  never  her  enemies. 
In  Andre's  case  there  are  no  doubts:  't  is  clear: 
Sir  Henry  Clinton  knows  it. 

BRITISH  OFFICER. 
Weigh  consequences. 

GENERAL. 

In  strict  regard  to  consequence  I  act; 
And  much  should  doubt  to  call  that  action  right, 
However  specious,  whose  apparent  end 
Was  misery  to  man.    That  brave  officer 
Whose  death  you  threaten,  for  himself  drew  not 
His  sword — his  country's  wrongs  arous'd  his  mind; 
Her  good  alone  his  aim ;  and  if  his  fall 
Can  further  fire  that  country  to  resistance, 
He  will,  with  smiles,  yield  up  his  glorious  life, 
And  count  his  death  a  gain;  and  tho'  Columbians 
Will  lament  his  fall,  they  will  lament  in  blood. 

[GENERAL  walks  up  the  stage. 

M' DONALD. 
Hear  this!  hear  this,  mankind! 


Andre  541 

BRITISH  OFFICER. 

Thus  am  I  answered? 
Enter  a  SERGEANT  with  a  letter. 

SERGEANT. 
Express  from  Colonel  Bland.  [Delivers  it  and  exit. 

GENERAL. 

With  your  permission.  [Opens  it. 

BRITISH  OFFICER. 
Your  pleasure,  sir.    It  may  my  mission  further. 

M'  DONALD. 
O,  Bland!  my  countryman,  surely  I  know  thee! 

GENERAL. 
'T  is  short:   I  will  put  form  aside,  and  read  it. 

[Reads.]  "Excuse  me,  my  Commander,  for  having  a  moment 
doubted  your  virtue:  but  you  love  me.  If  you  waver,  let  this 
confirm  you.  My  wife  and  children,  to  you  and  my  country. 
Do  your  duty."  Report  this  to  your  General. 

BRITISH  OFFICER. 

I  shall,  sir/ 
[Bows,  and  exit  with  AMERICAN  OFFICER. 

GENERAL. 
O,  Bland !  my  countryman !  [Exit  with  emotion. 

M' DONALD. 

Triumph  of  virtue! 
Like  him  and  thee,  still  be  Americans. 
Then,  tho'  all-powerful  Europe  league  against  us, 
And  pour  in  arms  her  legions  on  our  shores; 
Who  is  so  dull  would  doubt  their  shameful  flight? 
Who  doubt  our  safety,  and  our  glorious  triumph? 

SCENE,  the  Prison. 
Enter  BLAND. 

BLAND. 

Lingering,  I  come  to  crush  the  bud  of  hope 
My  breath  has,  flattering,  to  existence  warm'd. 


542  Representative  Plays 

Hard  is  the  task  to  friendship !  hard  to  say, 
To  the  lov'd  object  there  remains  no  hope, 
No  consolation  for  thee;  thou  must  die; 
The  worst  of  deaths;  no  circumstance  abated. 

Enter  ANDRE  in  his  uniform,  and  dress' d. 

ANDRE. 
Is  there  that  state  on  earth  which  friendship  cannot  cheer? 

BLAND. 
Little  /  bring  to  cheer  thee,  Andre. 

ANDRE. 

I  understand.    'T  is  well.    'T  will  soon  be  past. 
Yet,  't  was  not  much  I  ask'd.    A  soldier's  death. 
A  trifling  change  of  form. 

BLAND. 

Of  that  I  spoke  not. 
By  vehemence  of  passion  hurried  on, 
I  pleaded  for  thy  precious  life  alone; 
The  which  denied,  my  indignation  barr'd 
All  further  parley.    But  strong  solicitation 
Now  is  urg'd  to  gain  the  wish'd-for  favour. 

ANDRE. 
What  is  't  o'clock? 

BLAND. 
'T  is  past  the  stroke  of  nine. 

ANDRE. 

Why,  then,  't  is  almost  o'er.    But  to  be  hung — 
Is  there  no  way  to  escape  that  infamy? 
What  then  is  infamy? — no  matter — no  matter. 

BLAND. 
Our  General  hath  received  another  flag. 

ANDRE. 
Soliciting  for  me? 

BLAND. 

On  thy  behalf. 


Andre  543 

ANDRE. 
I  have  been  ever  favour'd. 

BLAND. 

Threat' nings,  now; 

No  more  solicitations.    Harsh,  indeed, 
The  import  of  the  message:  harsh,  indeed. 

ANDRE. 

I  am  sorry  for  it.    Would  that  I  were  dead, 
And  all  was  well  with  those  I  leave  behind. 

BLAND. 

Such  a  threat!    Is  it  not  enough,  just  heaven, 
That  I  must  lose  this  man?    Yet  there  was  left 
One  for  my  soul  to  rest  on.    But,  to  know 
That  the  same  blow  deprives  them  both  of  life — 

ANDRE. 

What  mean'st  thou,  Bland?   Surely  my  General 
Threats  not  retaliation.    In  vengeance, 
Dooms  not  some  better  man  to  die  for  me? 

BLAND. 
The  best  of  men. 

ANDRE. 

Thou  hast  a  father,  captive — 
I  dare  not  ask — 

BLAND. 
That  father  dies  for  thee. 

ANDRE. 

Gracious  heaven!  how  woes  are  heap'd  upon  me! 
What!  cannot  one,  so  trifling  in  life's  scene, 
Fall,  without  drawing  such  a  ponderous  ruin? 
Leave  me,  my  friend,  awhile — I  yet  have  life — 
A  little  space  of  life — let  me  exert  it 
To  prevent  injustice: — From  death  to  save 
Thy  father,  thee  to  save  from  utter  desolation. 

BLAND. 
What  mean'st  thou,  Andre? 


544  Representative  Plays 

ANDRE. 

Seek  thou  the  messenger 

Who  brought  this  threat.    I  will  my  last  entreaty 
Send  by  him.    My  General,  sure,  will  grant  it. 

BLAND. 
To  the  last  thyself!  [Exit. 

ANDRE. 

If,  at  this  moment, 

When  the  pangs  of  death  already  touch  me, 
Firmly  my  mind  against  injustice  strives, 
And  the  last  impulse  to  my  vital  powers 
Is  given  by  anxious  wishes  to  redeem 
My  fellowmen  from  pain;  surely  my  end, 
Howe'er  accomplish'd,  is  not  infamous.  [Exit. 

End  of  the  Third  Act. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE,  the  Encampment. 
Enter  M' DONALD  and  BLAND. 

BLAND. 

It  doth  in  truth  appear,  that  as  a — spy — 
Detested  word! — brave  Andre  must  be  view'd. 
His  sentence  he  confesses  strictly  just. 
Yet  sure  a  deed  of  mercy,  from  thy  hand, 
Could  never  lead  to  ill.    By  such  an  act, 
The  stern  and  blood-stain'd  brow  of  War 
Would  be  disarm'd  of  half  its  gorgon  horrors; 
More  humanized  customs  be  induced ; 
And  all  the  race  of  civilized  man 
Be  blest  in  the  example.    Be  it  thy  suit: 
'T  will  well  become  thy  character  and  station. 

M' DONALD. 

Trust  me,  young  friend,  I  am  alone  the  judge 
Of  what  becomes  my  character  and  station : 
And  having  judg'd  that  this  young  Briton's  death, 
Even  'though  attended  by  thy  father's  murder, 
Is  necessary,  in  these  times  accurs'd, 


Andre  545 

When  every  thought  of  man  is  ting'd  with  blood, 
I  will  not  stir  my  finger  to  redeem  them. 
Nay,  much  I  wonder,  Bland,  having  so  oft 
The  reasons  for  this  necessary  rigour 
Enforced  upon  thee,  thou  wilt  still  persist 
In  vain  solicitations.    Imitate 
Thy  father! 

BLAND. 

My  father  knew  not  Andre. 
I  know  his  value;  owe  to  him  my  life; 
And,  gratitude,  that  first,  that  best  of  virtues, — 
Without  the  which  man  sinks  beneath  the  brute, — 
Binds  me  in  ties  indissoluble  to  him. 

M' DONALD. 

That  man-created  virtue  blinds  thy  reason. 

Man  owes  to  man  all  love;  when  exercised, 

He  does  no  more  than  duty.    Gratitude, 

That  selfish  rule  of  action,  which  commands 

That  we  our  preference  make  of  men, 

Not  for  their  worth,  but  that  they  did  us  service, 

Misleading  reason,  casting  in  the  way 

Of  justice  stumbling-blocks,  cannot  be  virtue. 

BLAND. 
Detested  sophistry! — 'T  was  Andre  sav'd  me! 

M' DONALD. 

He  sav'd  thy  life,  and  thou  art  grateful  for  it. 
How  self  intrudes,  delusive,  on  man's  thoughts! 
He  sav'd  thy  life,  yet  strove  to  damn  thy  country; 
Doom'd  millions  to  the  haughty  Briton's  yoke; 
The  best,  and  foremost  in  the  cause  of  virtue, 
To  death,  by  sword,  by  prison,  or  the  halter: 
His  sacrifice  now  stands  the  only  bar 
Between  the  wanton  cruelties  of  war, 
And  our  much-suffering  soldiers:  yet,  when  weigh'd 
With  gratitude,  for  that  he  sav'd  thy  life, 
These  things  prove  gossamer,  and  balance  air: — 
Perversion  monstrous  of  man's  moral  sense! 


546  Representative  Plays 

BLAND. 

Rather  perversion  monstrous  of  all  good, 
Is  thy  accurs'd,  detestable  opinion. 
Cold-blooded  reasoners,  such  as  thee,  would  blast 
All  warm  affection;  asunder  sever 
Every  social  tie  of  humanized  man. 
Curst  be  thy  sophisms!  cunningly  contriv'd 
The  callous  coldness  of  thy  heart  to  cover, 
And  screen  thee  from  the  brave  man's  detestation. 

M' DONALD. 
Boy,  boy! 

BLAND. 

Thou  knowest  that  Andre's  not  a  spy. 

M' DONALD. 
I  know  him  one.    Thou  hast  acknowledg'd  it. 

BLAND. 
Thou  liest! 

M'DONALD. 

Shame  on  thy  ruffian  tongue !    how  passion 
Mars  thee!    I  pity  thee!    Thou  canst  not  harm, 
By  words  intemperate,  a  virtuous  man. 
I  pity  thee!  for  passion  sometimes  sways 
My  older  frame,  through  former  uncheck'd  habit: 
But  when  I  see  the  havoc  which  it  makes 
In  others,  I  can  shun  the  snare  accurst, 
And  nothing  feel  but  pity. 

BLAND  [indignantly]. 

Pity  me,!  [Approaches  him,  and  speaks  in  an  under  voice, 

Thou  canst  be  cool,  yet,  trust  me,  passion  swrays  thee. 
Fear  does  not  warm  the  blood,  yet  't  is  a  passion. 
Hast  thou  no  feeling?    I  have  call'd  thee  liar! 

M' DONALD. 
If  thou  could'st  make  me  one,  I  then  might  grieve. 

BLAND. 
Thy  coolness  goes  to  freezing:  thou'rt  a  coward. 

JM 'DONALD. 
Thou  knowest  thou  tell'st  a  falsehood. 


Andre  547 

BLAND. 

Thou  shalt  know 

None  with  impunity  speaks  thus  of  me. 
That  to  rouse  thy  courage.     [Touches  him  gently,  with  his  open 

hand,  in  crossing  him.    M' DONALD  looks  at  him  unmoved.] 

Dost  thou  not  yet  feel? 

M' DONALD. 

For  thee  I  feel.    And  tho'  another's  acts 
Cast  no  dishonour  on  the  worthy  man, 
I  still  feel  for  thy  father.    Yet,  remember, 
I  may  not,  haply,  ever  be  thus  guarded ; 
I  may  not  always  the  distinction  make. 
However  just,  between  the  blow  intended 
To  provoke,  and  one  that's  meant  to  injure. 

BLAND. 
Hast  thou  no  sense  of  honour? 

M' DONALD. 

Truly,  yes: 

For  I  am  honour's  votary.    Honour,  with  me, 
Is  worth:   't  is  truth;   't  is  virtue;   't  is  a  thing, 
So  high  pre-eminent,  that  a  boy's  breath,  •" 

Or  brute's,  or  madman's  blow,  can  never  reach  it. 
My  honour  is  so  much,  so  truly  mine, 
That  none  hath  power  to  wound  it,  save  myself. 

BLAND. 
I  will  proclaim  thee  through  the  camp  a  coward. 

M' DONALD. 
Think  better  of  it!    Proclaim  not  thine  own  shame. 

BLAND. 
I'll  brand  thee — Damnation!  [Exit. 

M' DONALD. 

O,  passion,  passion! 

A  man  who  values  fame,  far  more  than  life; 
A  brave  young  man;  in  many  things  a  good; 
Utters  vile  falsehood;  adds  injury  to  insult; 
Striving  with  blood  to  seal  such  foul  injustice; 


548  Representative  Plays 

And  all  from  impulse  of  unbridled  feeling. —  [Pause. 

Here  comes  the  mother  of  this  headstrong  boy, 
Severely  rack'd — What  shall  allay  her  torture? 
For  common  consolation,  here,  is  insult. 

Enter  MRS.  BLAND  and  CHILDREN. 

MRS.  BLAND. 

0  my  good  friend! 

M' DONALD  [taking  her  hand]. 

I  know  thy  cause  of  sorrow. 
Art  thou  now  from  our  Commander? 

MRS.  BLAND  [drying  her  tears,  and  assuming  dignity]. 

I  am. 

But  vain  is  my  entreaty.    All  unmov'd 
He  hears  my  words,  he  sees  my  desperate  sorrow. 
Fain  would  I  blame  his  conduct — but  I  cannot. 
Strictly  examin'd,  with  intent  to  mark 
The  error  which  so  fatal  proves  to  me, 
My  scrutiny  but  ends  in  admiration. 
Thus  when  the  prophet  from  the  Hills  of  Moab, 
Look'd  down  upon  the  chosen  race  of  heaven, 
With  fell  intent  to  curse;  ere  yet  he  spake, 
Truth  all  resistless,  emanation  bright 
From  great  Adonai,  fill'd  his  froward  mind, 
And  chang'd  the  curses  of  his  heart  to  blessings. 

M' DONALD. 
Thou  payest  high  praise  to  virtue.    Whither  now? — 

MRS.  BLAND. 

1  still  must  hover  round  this  spot  until 
My  doom  is  known. 

M' DONALD. 

Then  to  my  quarters,  lady, 

There  shall  my  mate  give  comfort  and  refreshment: 
One  of  your  sex  can  best  your  sorrows  soothe.  [Exctint. 


Andre  549 

SCENE,  the  Prison. 
Enter  BLAND. 

BLAND. 

Where'er  I  look  cold  desolation  meets  me. 
My  father — Andre — and  self-condemnation! 
Why  seek  I  Andre  now?    Am  /  a  man, 
To  soothe  the  sorrows  of  a  suffering  friend? 
The  weather-cock  of  passion !  fool  inebriate ! 
Who  could  with  ruffian  hand  strive  to  provoke 
Hoar  wisdom  to  intemperance!  who  could  lie! 
Aye,  swagger,  lie,  and  brag! — Liar!  Damnation!! 
O,  let  me  steal  away  and  hide  my  head, 
Nor  view  a  man,  condemn'd  to  harshest  death, 
Whose  words  and  actions,  when  by  mine  compar'd, 
Shew  white  as  innocence,  and  bright  as  truth. 
I  now  would  shun  him;  but  that  his  shorten'd 
Thread  of  life,  gives  me  no  line  to  play  with. 
He  comes,  with  smiles,  and  all  the  air  of  triumph; 
While  I  am  sinking  with  remorse  and  shame: 
Yet  he  is  doom'd  to  death,  and  /  am  free! 

Enter  ANDRE. 
ANDRE. 

Welcome,  my  Bland!    Cheerly,  a  welcome  hither! 
I  feel  assurance  that  my  last  request 
Will  not  be  slighted.    Safely  thy  father 

Shall  return  to  thee.     [Holding  out  a  paper.  ]    See  what  employ 
ment 

For  a  dying  man.    Take  thou  these  verses; 
And,  after  my  decease,  send  them  to  her 
Whose  name  is  woven  in  them ;  whose  image 
Hath  controul'd  my  destiny.    Such  tokens 
Are  rather  out  of  date.    Fashions 
There  are  in  love  as  in  all  else;  they  change 
As  variously.    A  gallant  Knight,  erewhile, 
Of  Cceur  de  Lion's  day,  would,  dying,  send 
His  heart  home  to  its  mistress;  degenerate 
Soldier  I,  send  but  some  blotted  paper. 


550  Representative  Plays 

BLAND. 

If  't  would  not  damp  thy  present  cheerfulness, 
I  would  require  the  meaning  of  thy  words. 
I  ne'er  till  now  did  hear  of  Andre's  mistress. 

ANDRE. 

Mine  is  a  story  of  that  common  kind, 
So  often  told,  with  scanty  variation, 
That  the  pall'd  ear  loaths  the'  repeated  tale. 
Each  young  romancer  chooses  for  his  theme 
The  woes  of  youthful  hearts,  by  the  cold  hand 
Of  frosty  Age,  arm'd  with  parental  power, 
Asunder  torn.    But  I  long  since  have  ceas'd 
To  mourn;  well  satisfied  that  she  I  love, 
Happy  in  holy  union  with  another, 
Shares  not  my  wayward  fortunes.    Nor  would  I 
Now  these  tokens  send,  remembrance  to  awaken, 
But  that  I  know  her  happy:  and  the  happy 
Can  think  on  misery  and  share  it  not. 

BLAND  [agitated]. 

Some  one  approaches. 

ANDRE. 

Why,  't  is  near  the  time. 
But  tell  me,  Bland,  say — is  the  manner  chang'd? 

BLAND. 
I  hope  it — but  I  yet  have  no  assurance. 

ANDRE. 
Well,  well! 

HONORA  [without]. 
1  must  see  him. 

ANDRE. 

Whose  voice  was  that? 
My  senses!— Do  I  dream — ?  [Leans  on  BLAND. 

Enter  HONORA. 

HONORA. 
Where  is  he? 


Andre  551 

ANDRE. 

T  is  she ! !  [Starts  from  BLAND 

and  advances  towards  HONORA;  she  rushes  into  his  arms.] 

HONORA. 
It  is  enough !    He  lives,  and  /  shall  save  him. 

[She  faints  in  the  arms  of  ANDR£. 

ANDRE. 
She  sinks — assist  me,  Bland!    O,  save  her,  save  her! 

[Places  her  in  a  chair,  and  looks  tenderly  on  her. 
Yet,  why  should  she  awake  from  that  sweet  sleep! 
Why  should  she  open  her  eyes — [Wildly.] — to  see  me  hung! 
What  does  she  here?    Stand  off—  [Tenderly.]— and  let  her  die. 
How  pale  she  looks!  how  worn  that  tender  frame! — 
She  has  known  sorrow!    Who  could  injure  her? 

BLAND. 
She  revives — Andre — soft,  bend  her  forward. 

[ANDR&  kneels  and  supports  her. 

HONORA. 
Andre—! 

ANDRE. 
Lov'd  excellence! 

HONORA. 

Yes,  it  is  Andre!  [Rises  and  looks  at  him. 

No  more  deceived  by  visionary  forms, 
By  him  supported—  [Leans  on  him. 

ANDRE. 
Why  is  this? 

Thou  dost  look  pale,  Honora — sick  and  wan — 
Languid  thy  fainting  limbs — 

HONORA. 

All  will  be  well. 

But  was  it  kind  to  leave  me  as  thou  didst — ? 
So  rashly  to  desert  thy  vow-link'd  wife? — 

ANDRE. 
When  made  another's  both  by  vows  and  laws — 


552  Representative  Plays 

HONOR  A  [quitting  his  support]. 
What  meanest  thou? 

ANDRE. 
Didst  thou  not  marry  him? 

HONOR  A. 
Marry ! 

ANDRE. 

Didst  thou  not  give  thy  hand  away 
From  me? 

HONORA. 
O,  never,  never! 

ANDRE. 
Not  married? 

HONORA. 

To  none  but  thee,  and  but  in  will  to  thee. 

ANDRE. 

0  blind,  blind  wretch!— Thy  father  told  me 

HONORA. 

Thou  wast  deceived.  They  hurried  me  away, 
Spreading  false  rumours  to  remove  thy  love — 
[Tenderly.]  Thou  didst  too  soon  believe  them. 

ANDRE. 
Thy  father — 

How  could  I  but  believe  Honora's  father? 
And  he  did  tell  me  so.    I  reverenced  age, 
Yet  knew,  age  was  not  virtue.    I  believed 
His  snowy  locks,  and  yet  they  did  deceive  me! 

1  have  destroy 'd  myself  and  thee! — Alas! 
Ill-fated  maid!  why  didst  thou  not  forget  me? 
Hast  thou  rude  seas  and  hostile  shores  explor'd 
For  this?    To  see  my  death?    Witness  my  shame? 

HONORA. 

I  come  to  bless  thee,  Andre;  and  shall  do  it. 
I  bear  such  offers  from  thy  kind  Commander, 
As  must  prevail  to  save  thee.    Thus  the  daughter 
May  repair  the  ills  her  cruel  sire  inflicted. 
My  father,  dying,  gave  me  cause  to  think 


Andre  553 


That  arts  were  us'd  to  drive  thee  from  thy  home; 
But  what  those  arts  I  knew  not.    An  heiress  left, 
Of  years  mature,  with  power  and  liberty, 
I  straight  resolv'd  to  seek  thee  o'er  the  seas. 
A  long-known  friend  who  came  to  join  her  lord, 
Yielded  protection  and  lov'd  fellowship. — 
Indeed,  when  I  did  hear  of  thy  estate 
It  almost  kill'd  me: — I  was  weak  before — 

ANDRE. 
'T  is  I  have  murder'd  thee! — 

HONORA. 
All  shall  be  well. 

Thy  General  heard  of  me,  and  instant  form'd 
The  plan  of  this  my  visit.    I  am  strong, 
Compar'd  with  what  I  was.    Hope  strengthens  me; 
Nay,  even  solicitude  supports  me  now; 
And  when  thou  shalt  be  safe,  Ihou  wilt  support  me. 

ANDRE. 

Support  thee! — O  heaven!   What! — And  must  I  die? 
Die! — and  leave  her  thus — suffering — unprotected! — 

Enter  MELVILLE  and  GUARD. 

MELVILLE. 

I  am  sorry  that  my  duty  should  require 
Service,  at  which  my  heart  revolts;  but,  sir, 
Our  soldiers  wait  in  arms.    All  is  prepar'd 

HONORA. 

To  death! — Impossible!  Has  my  delay, 
Then,  murder'd  him? — A  momentary  respite — 

MELVILLE. 
Lady,  I  have  no  power. 

BLAND. 

Melville,  my  friend, 

This  lady  bears  dispatches  of  high  import, 
Touching  this  business: — should  they  arrive  too  late- 


554  Representative  Plays 

HONORA. 

For  pity's  sake,  and  heaven's,  conduct  me  to  him; 
And  wait  the  issue  of  our  conference. 
Oh,  't  would  be  murder  of  the  blackest  dye, 
Sin  execrable,  not  to  break  thy  orders — 
Inhuman,  thou  art  not. 

MELVILLE. 

Lady,  thou  say'st  true; 
For  rather  would  I  lose  my  rank  in  arms, 
And  stand  cashier'd  for  lack  of  discipline, 
Than,  gain  'mongst  military  men  all  praise, 
Wanting  the  touch  of  sweet  humanity. 

HONORA. 
Thou  grantest  my  request? 

MELVILLE. 
Lady,  I  do. 

Retire !  [SOLDIERS  go  out. 

BLAND. 

I  know  not  what  excuse,  to  martial  men, 
Thou  canst  advance  for  this;  but  to  thy  heart 
Thou  wilt  need  none,  good  Melville. 

ANDRE. 
O,  Honora! 

HONORA. 

Cheer  up,  I  feel  assur'd.    Hope  wings  my  flight, 
To  bring  thee  tidings  of  much  joy  to  come. 

[Exit  HONORA,  with  BLAND  and  MELVILLE. 

ANDRE. 

Eternal  blessings  on  thee,  matchless  woman ! — 
If  death  now  comes,  he  finds  the  veriest  coward 
That  e'er  he  dealt  withal.    I  cannot  think 
Of  dying.    Void  of  fortitude,  each  thought 
Clings  to  the  world — the  world  that  holds  Honora ! 

[Exit. 
End  of  the  Fourth  Act. 


Andre  555 

ACT  V. 

SCENE,  the  Encampment. 
Enter  BLAND. 

BLAND. 

Suspense — uncertainty — man's  bane  and  solace! 
How  racking  now  to  me!    My  mother  comes. 
Forgive  me,  O  my  father!  if  in  this  war, 
This  wasting  conflict  of  my  wildering  passions, 
Memory  of  thee  holds  here  a  second  place! 
M' Donald  comes  with  her.    I  would  not  meet  him: 
Yet  I  will  do  it.    Summon  up  some  courage — 
Confess  my  fault,  and  gain,  if  not  his  love, 
At  least  the  approbation  of  my  judgment. 

Enter  MRS.  BLAND  and  CHILDREN  with  M 'DONALD. 

BLAND. 

Say,  madam,  is  there  no  change  of  counsel, 
Or  new  determination?  * 

MRS.  BLAND. 

Nought  new,  my  son. 
The  tale  of  misery  is  told  unheard. 
The  widow's  and  the  orphans'  sighs 
Fly  up,  unnoted  by  the  eye  of  man, 
And  mingle,  undistinguish'd,  with  the  winds. 
My  friend  [To  M'DoNALD.],  attend  thy  duties.    I  must  away. 

2nd  CHILD. 

You  need  not  cry,  Mama,  the  General  will  do  it,  I  am  sure; 
for  I  saw  him  cry.  He  turn'd  away  his  head  from  you,  but  I 
saw  it. 

MRS.  BLAND. 

Poor  thing!  come  let  us  home  and  weep.    Alas! 
I  can  no  more,  for  war  hath  made  men  rocks. 

[Exeunt  MRS.  BLAND  and  CHILDREN. 

BLAND. 

Colonel,  I  used  thee  ill  this  morning. 


556  Representative  Plays 

M' DONALD. 
No! 
Thyself  thou  used'st  most  vilely,  I  remember. 

BLAND. 

Myself  sustained  the  injury,  most  true; 
But  the  intent  of  what  I  said  and  did 
Was  ill  to  thee  alone:   I'm  sorry  for  it. 
Seest  thou  these  blushes?    They  proceed  from  warmth 
As  honest  as  the  heart  of  man  e'er  felt; — 
But  not  with  shame  unmingled,  while  I  force 
This  tongue,  debased,  to  own,  it  slander'd  thee, 
And  utter'd — I  could  curse  it — utter'd  falsehood. 
Howe'er  misled  by  passion,  still  my  mind 
Retains  that  sense  of  honest  rectitude 
Which  makes  the  memory  of  an  evil  deed 
A  troublesome  companion.    I  was  wrong. 

M' DONALD. 

Why,  now  this  glads  me;   for  thou  now  art  right. 
Oh,  may  thy  tongue,  henceforward,  utter  nought 
But  Truth's  sweet  precepts,  in  fair  Virtue's  cause! 
Give  me  thy  hand.     [Takes  his  hand.]     Ne'er  may  it  grasp  a 

sword 
But  in  defense  of  justice. 

BLAND. 
Yet,  erewhile, 

A  few  short  hours  scarce  past,  when  this  vile  hand 
Attempted  on  thee  insult;  and  was  raised 
Against  thy  honour;  ready  to  be  raised 
Against  thy  life.    If  this  my  deep  remorse — 

M' DONALD. 

No  more,  no  more.    'T  is  past.    Remember  it 
But  as  thou  would'st  the  action  of  another, 
By  thy  enlighten'd  judgment  much  condemn'd; 
And  serving  as  a  beacon  in  the  storms 
Thy  passions  yet  may  raise.    Remorse  is  vice : 
Guard  thee  against  its  influence  debasing. 
Say  to  thyself,  "I  am  not  what  I  was; 
I  am  not  now  the  instrument  of  vice; 


Andre  557 


I'm  changed;  I  am  a  man;  Virtue's  firm  friend; 
Sever'd  for  ever  from  my  former  self; 
No  link,  but  in  remembrance  salutary." 

BLAND. 
[How1  all  men  tower  above  me! 

M' DONALD. 

Nay,  not  so. 

Above  what  once  thou  wast,  some  few  do  rise; 
None  above  what  thou  art. 

BLAND. 
It  shall  be  so. 

M' DONALD. 
It  is  so. 

BLAND. 

Then  to  prove  it. 
For  I  must  yet  a  trial  undergo, 
That  will  require  a  consciousness  of  virtue.  [Exit. 

M 'DONALD. 

Oh,  what  a  temper  doth  in  man  reside! 
How  capable  of  yet  unthought  perfection!]  [Exit. 

SCENE,  the  GENERAL'S  Quarters. 

Enter  GENERAL  and  SEWARD. 

GENERAL. 
Ask  her,  my  friend,  to  send  by  thee  her  pacquets. 

[Exit  SEWARD. 

Oh,  what  keen  struggles  must  I  undergo! 
Unbless'd  estate!  to  have  the  power  to  pardon; 
The  court's  stern  sentence  to  remit; — give  life; — 
Feel  the  strong  wish  to  use  such  blessed  power; 
Yet  know  that  circumstances  strong  as  fate 
Forbid  to  obey  the  impulse.    Oh,  I  feel 
That  man  should  never  shed  the  blood  of  man! 

1  Insert  the  lines  which  were  substituted  after  the  first  night  for  the  lines  here 
put  in  brackets.     They  are  given  in  the  Preface,  page  509. 


558  Representative  Plays 

Enter  SEWARD. 

SEWARD. 

Nought  can  the  lovely  suitor  satisfy, 
But  conference  with  thee,  and  much  I  fear 
Refusal  would  cause  madness. 

GENERAL. 
Yet  to  admit, 
To  hear,  be  tortur'd,  and  refuse  at  last — 

SEWARD. 

Sure  never  man  such  spectacle  of  sorrow 
Saw  before.    Motionless  the  rough-hewn  soldiers 
Silent  view  her,  or  walk  aside  and  weep. 

GENERAL  [after  a  pause]. 

Admit  her.     [SEWARD  goes  out.  ]    Oh,  for  the  art,  the  precious  art, 
To  reconcile  the  sufferer  to  his  sorrows! 

[HONORA  rushes  in,  and  throws  herself  wildly  on  her  knees  before 
him;  he  endeavours  to  raise  her. 

HONORA. 

Nay,  nay,  here  is  my  place,  or  here,  or  lower, 
Unless  thou  grant'st  his  life.    All  forms  away ! 
Thus  will  I  clasp  thy  knees,  thus  cling  to  thee. — 
I  am  his  wife — 'tis  I  have  ruin'd  him — 
Oh,  save  him !    Give  him  to  me !    Let  us  cross 
The  mighty  seas,  far,  far — ne'er  to  offend  again. — 

[The  GENERAL  turns  away,  and  hides  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

Enter  SEWARD  and  an  OFFICER. 

GENERAL. 

Seward,  support  her — my  heart  is  torn  in  twain. 
[HONORA  as  if  exhausted,  suffers  herself  to  be  raised,  and  leans  on 
SEWARD. 

OFFICER. 

This  moment,  sir,  a  messenger  arrived 
With  well  confirm'd  and  mournful  information, 
That  gallant  Hastings,  by  the  lawless  scouts 
Of  Britain  taken,  after  cruel  mockery 
With  shew  of  trial  and  condemnation, 
On  the  next  tree  was  hung. 


Andre  559 

HONORA  [wildly], 
Oh,  it  is  false! 

GENERAL. 

Why,  why,  my  country,  did  I  hesitate?  [Exit. 

[HONORA  sinks,  faints,  and  is  borne  off  by  SEWARD  and  OFFICER. 

SCENE,  the  Prison. 
ANDRE  meeting  BLAND. 

ANDRE. 

How  speeds  Honora?    [Pause.]    Art  thou  silent,  Bland? 
Why,  then  I  know  my  task.    The  mind  of  man, 
If  not  by  vice  debas'd,  debilitated, 
Or  by  disease  of  body  quite  unton'd, 
Hath  o'er  its  thoughts  a  power — energy  divine ! 
Of  fortitude  the  source  and  every  virtue — 
A  godlike  power,  which  e'en  o'er  circumstance 
Its  sov'reignty  exerts.    Now,  from  my  thoughts, 
Honora!    Yet  she  is  left  alone — expos'd — 

BLAND. 

O,  Andr£,  spurn  me,  strike  me  to  the  earth; 
For  what  a  wretch  am  I,  in  Andre's  mind, 
That  he  can  think  he  leaves  his  love  alone, 
And  I  retaining  life! 

ANDRE. 

Forgive  me,  Bland, 

My  thoughts  glanc'd  not  on  thee.    Imagination 
Pictur'd  only,  then,  her  orphan  state,  helpless; 
Her  weak  and  grief-exhausted  frame.    Alas ! 
This  blow  will  kill  her! 

BLAND  [kneeling]. 

Here  do  I  myself 

Devote,  my  fortune  consecrate,  to  thee, 
To  thy  remembrance,  and  Honora's  service ! — 

ANDRE. 

Enough !  Let  me  not  see  her  more — nor  think  of  her — 
Farewell!  farewell,  sweet  image!    Now  for  death. 


560  Representative  Plays 

BLAND. 

Yet  that  you  shouldst  the  felon's  fate  fulfill — 
Damnation!  my  blood  boils.    Indignation 
Makes  the  current  of  my  life  course  wildly 
Through  its  round,  and  maddens  each  emotion. 

ANDRE. 

Come,  come,  it  matters  not. 

BLAND. 

I  do  remember, 

When  a  boy,  at  school,  in  our  allotted  tasks, 
We,  by  our  puny  acts,  strove  to  portray 
The  giant  thoughts  of  Otway.    I  was  Pierre. — 
O,  thou  art  Pierre's  reality!  a  soldier, 
On  whose  manly  brow  sits  fortitude  enamour'd ! 
A  Mars,  abhorring  vice,  yet  doom'd  to  die 
A  death  of  infamy;   thy  corse  expos'd 
To  vulgar  gaze — halter'd — distorted — Oh ! ! 

[Pauses,  and  then  adds  in  a  low,  hollow  voice. 
Pierre  had  a  friend  to  save  him  from  such  shame — 
And  so  hast  thou. 

ANDRE. 

No  more,  as  thou  dost  love  me. 

BLAND. 
I  have  a  sword,  and  arm,  that  never  fail'd  me. 

ANDRE. 

Bland,  such  an  act  would  justly  thee  involve, 
And  leave  that  helpless  one  thou  sworest  to  guard, 
Expos'd  to  every  ill.    Oh!  think  not  of  it. 

BLAND. 
If  thou  wilt  not  my  aid — take  it  thyself. 

[Draws  and  offers  his  sword. 

ANDRE. 

No,  men  will  say  that  cowardice  did  urge  me. 
In  my  mind's  weakness,  I  did  wish  to  shun 
That  mode  of  death  which  error  represented 
Infamous:  Now  let  me  rise  superior; 
And  with  a  fortitude  too  true  to  start 
From  mere  appearances,  shew  your  country, 


Andre  561 

That  she,  in  me,  destroys  a  man  who  might 
Have  liv'd  to  virtue. 

BLAND  [sheathing  his  sword]. 

I  will  not  think  more  of  it; 
I  was  again  the  sport  of  erring  passion. 

ANDRE. 
Go  thou  and  guide  Honora  from  this  spot. 

HONORA  [entering], 

Who  shall  oppose  his  wife?    I  will  have  way! 
They,  cruel,  would  have  kept  me  from  thee,  Andre. 
Say,  am  I  not  thy  wife?    Wilt  thou  deny  me? 
Indeed  I  am  not  dress'd  in  bridal  trim. 
But  I  have  travel'd  far: — rough  was  the  road — 
Rugged  and  rough — that  must  excuse  my  dress. 
[Seeing  ANDRE'S  distress.  ]    Thou  art  not  glad  to  see  me. 

ANDRE. 
Break  my  heart! 

HONORA. 
Indeed,  I  feel  not  much  in  spirits.    I  wept  but  now. 

Enter  MELVILLE  and  GUARD. 

BLAND  [to  MELVILLE]. 
Say  nothing. 

ANDRE. 
I  am  ready. 

HONORA  [seeing  the  GUARD]. 

Are  they  here? 

Here  again! — The  same — but  they  shall  not  harm  me — 
I  am  with  thee,  my  Andre — I  am  safe — 
And  thou  art  safe  with  me.    Is  it  not  so? 

[Clinging  to  him. 

Enter  MRS.  BLAND. 

MRS.  BLAND. 
Where  is  this  lovely  victim? 


562  Representative  Plays 

BLAND. 
Thanks,  my  mother. 

MRS.  BLAND. 

M' Donald  sent  me  hither.    My  woes  are  past. 

Thy  father,  by  the  foe  releas'd,  already 

Is  in  safety.    This  be  forgotten  now; 

And  every  thought  be  turn'd  to  this  sad  scene. 

Come,  lady,  home  with  me. 

HONORA. 

Go  home  with  thee? 

Art  thou  my  Andre's  mother?    We  will  home 
And  rest,  for  thou  art  weary — very  weary. 

[Leans  on  MRS.  BLAND. 

[ANDRE  retires  to  the  GUARD,  and  goes  off  with  them,  looking  on  her 
to  the  last,  and  with  an  action  of  extreme  tenderness  takes  leave 
of  her.  MELVILLE  and  BLAND  accompany  him. 

HONORA. 

Now  we  will  go.    Come,  love!    Where  is  he? 
All  gone! — I  do  remember — I  awake — 
They  have  him.    Murder!    Help!    Oh,  save  him!    save  him! 
[HONORA  attempts  to  follow,  but  falls.    MRS.  BLAND  kneels  to  as 
sist  her.    Scene  closes. 

SCENE,  the  Encampment. 

Procession  to  the  execution  of  ANDRE.  First  enter  Pioneers — 
Detachment  of  Infantry — Military  Band  of  Music — Infantry. 
The  Music  having  passed  off,  enter  ANDRE  between  MELVILLE 
and  AMERICAN  OFFICER;  they  sorrowful,  he  cheerfully  convers 
ing  as  he  passes  over  the  stage. 

ANDRE. 

It  may  in  me  be  merely  prejudice, 
The  effect  of  young-opinion  deep  engraved 
Upon  the  tender  mind  by  care  parental ; 
But  I  must  think  your  country  has  mistook 
Her  interests.    Believe  me,  but  for  this  I  should 


Andre  563 

Not  willingly  have  drawn  a  sword  against  her. 

[They  bow  their  heads  in  silence. 
Opinion  must,  nay  ought,  to  sway  our  actions; 
Therefore— 

Having  crossed  the  stage,  he  goes  out  as  still  conversing  with  them. 

Another  detachment  of  Infantry,  with  muffled  and  craped  drums, 

close  the  procession:  as  soon  as  they  are  off — 

Scene  draws  and  discovers  the  distant  view  of  the  Encampment. 
Procession  enters  in  same  order  as  before,  proceeds  up  the  stage, 

and  goes  off  on  the  opposite  side. 

Enter  M' DONALD,  leading  BLAND,  who  looks  wildly  back. 

BLAND. 
I  dare  not  thee  resist.    Yet  why,  O,  why 


Thus  hurry  me  away- 

M' DONALD. 
Would'st  thou  behold 

BLAND. 
Oh,  name  it  not! 

M' DONALD. 

Or  would'st  thou,  by  thy  looks 
And  gestures  wild,  o'erthrow  that  manly  calmness 
Which,  or  assum'd  or  felt,  so  well  becomes  thy  friend? 

BLAND. 
What  means  that  cannon's  sound? 

M' DONALD  [after  a  pause}. 

Signal  of  death 
Appointed.    Andre,  thy  friend,  is  now  no  more! 

BLAND. 

Farewell,  farewell,  brave  spirit!    0,  let  my  countrymen, 
Henceforward,  when  the  cruelties  of  war 
Arise  in  their  remembrance;  when  their  ready 
Speech  would  pour  forth  torrents  in  their  foe's  dispraise, 
Think  on  this  act  accurst,  and  lock  complaint  in  silence. 

[BLAND  throws  himself  on  the  earth. 


564  Representative  Plays 

M' DONALD. 

Such  are  the  dictates  of  the  heart,  not  head. 
Oh,  may  the  children  of  Columbia  still 
Be  taught  by  every  teacher  of  mankind, 
Each  circumstance  of  calculative  gain, 
Or  wounded  pride,  which  prompted  our  oppressors: 
May  every  child  be  taught  to  lisp  the  tale: 
And  may,  in  times  to  come,  no  foreign  force, 
No  European  influence,  tempt  to  misstate, 
Or  awe  the  tongue  of  eloquence  to  silence. 
Still  may  our  children's  children  deep  abhor 
The  motives,  doubly  deep  detest  the  actors; 
Ever  remembering,  that  the  race  who  plan'd, 
Who  acquiesced,  or  did  the  deeds  abhor'd, 
Has  pass'd  from  off  the  earth ;  and,  in  its  stead, 
Stand  men  who  challenge  love  or  detestation 
But  from  their  proper,  individual  deeds. 
Never  let  memory  of  the  sire's  offence 
Descend  upon  the  son. 

Curtain  drops. 


THE    INDIAN    PRINCESS 

By  J.  N.  BARKER 


JAMES  NELSON  BARKER 

(1784-1858) 

In  a  letter  written  to  William  Dunlap,  from  Philadelphia,  on 
June  10,  1832,  James  Nelson  Barker  very  naively  and  very  fully 
outlined  his  career,  inasmuch  as  he  had  been  informed  by 
Manager  Wood  that  Mr.  Dunlap  wished  such  an  account  for  his 
"History  of  the  American  Stage." 

From  this  account,  we  learn  that  whatever  dramatic  ability 
Mr.  Barker  possessed  came  from  the  enthusiasm  created  within 
him  as  a  reader  of  wide  range.  For  example,  in  1804,  he  became 
the  author  of  a  one-act  piece,  entitled  "Spanish  Rover,"  fur 
nished  in  plot  by  Cervantes.  In  1805,  he  wrote  what  he  describes 
as  a  Masque,  entitled  "America,"  in  which  poetic  dialogue 
afforded  America,  Science  and  Liberty  the  opportunity  of  singing 
in  unison.  He  confesses  that  this  Masque  was  "to  close  a  drama 
I  had  projected  on  the  adventures  of  Smith  in  Virginia,  in  the 
olden  time."  Then  followed  a  tragedy  suggested  by  Gibbon, 
entitled  "Attila,"  but  Mr.  Barker  had  advanced  only  two  acts 
when  news  came  to  him  that  John  Augustus  Stone  was  at  work 
on  a  play  of  the  same  kind. 

In  his  letter  to  Dunlap,  Mr.  Barker  deplored  this  coincidence, 
which  put  a  stop  to  "Attila."  "But  have  you  never  yourself 
been  the  victim  of  these  odd  coincidences,  and,  just  as  you  had 
fixed  upon  a  subject  or  a  title,  found  yourself  superseded — a 
thing  next  in  atrocity  to  the  ancients'  stealing  all  one's  fine 
thoughts.  My  comedy  of  'Tears  and  Smiles'  was  to  be  called 
'Name  it  Yourself,'  when  out  comes  a  'Name  it  Yourself,'  in 
England,  and  out  comes  too  a  'Smiles  and  Tears,'  with  a  widow, 
an  Irishman,  and  almost  all  mydramat.  pers.  I  wrote  the  'Indian 
Princess,'  and  an  'Indian  Princess'  appears  in  England.  Looking 
over  the  old  English  dramatists,  I  am  struck  with  the  'Damon 
and  Pythias'  of  Edwards  as  a  subject,  but  am  scarcely  set  down 
to  it,  when  lo,  the  modern  play  in  London;  and  what  is  worse, 
with  the  fine  part  of  Pythias  absolutely  transformed  into  a 
snivelling  fellow,  who  bellows  like  a  calf  at  the  prospect  of  dying 
for  his  friend.  'Wallace'  was  purloined  from  me  in  like  manner, 


568  Representative  Plays 

and  several  other  heroes:  at  length  I  fix  upon  'Epaminondas',  as 
a  'learned  Theban'  of  so  philosophical  a  cast  of  character,  that 
even  the  French  had  not  thought  of  him  for  the  boards.  I  form 
my  plot,  and  begin  con  amore,  when  I  am  told  that  Dr.  Bird  has 
written  a  'Pelopidas'  and  an  'Epaminondas,'  comprehending  the 
whole  life  of  the  latter." 

Then,  having  finished  with  his  diatribe  against  coincidence — 
a  diatribe  which  excellently  well  shows  the  channels  in  which 
Barker's  literary  mind  ran,  and  likewise  the  closeness  with  which 
he  followed  the  literary  activity  of  the  period  among  his  asso 
ciates,  he  continued  in  his  narrative  to  Dunlap: 

"  'Tears  and  Smiles'  was  written  between  May  I  and  June 
12,  of  1806,  with  the  character  of  a  Yankee  intended  for  Jefferson. 
By  the  way,  such  a  Yankee  as  I  drew!"  he  writes.  "I  wonder 
what  Hackett  would  say  to  it!  The  truth  is,  I  had  never  even 
seen  a  Yankee  at  the  time." 

Then,  in  view  of  Barker's  political  tastes  which,  in  consider 
ation  of  the  dramatists  of  those  days,  one  must  always  take  into 
account,  he  wrote  a  piece  called  "The  Embargo;  or,  What 
News?"  borrowed  from  Murphy's  "Upholsterer,"  and  produced 
on  March  16,  1808. 

Between  this  play  and  1809,  "The  Indian  Princess"  was 
written,  and  what  Barker  has  to  say  about  it  will  be  quoted  in 
its  proper  place. 

Right  now,  we  are  letting  him  enumerate  his  own  literary 
activities,  which  were  many  and  continuous. 

In  1809,  he  Americanized  Cherry's  "Travellers,"  a  dramatic 
method  which  has  long  been  in  vogue  between  America  and 
England,  and  has,  in  many  respects,  spoiled  many  American 
comedies  for  English  consumption. 

In  1812,  at  the  request  of  Manager  Wood,  Mr.  Barker  made  a 
dramatization  of  Scott's  "Marmion,"  and,  strange  to  say,  it  was 
announced  as  being  written  by  Thomas  Morton,  Esq. 

"This  was  audacious  enough  in  all  conscience,"  says  Mr. 
Barker,  "but  the  finesse  was  successful,  and  a  play  most  probably 
otherwise  destined  to  neglect,  ran  like  wild  fire  through  all  our 
theatres."  On  March  24,  1817,  there  was  acted  in  Philadelphia, 
Barker's  "The  Armourer's  Escape;  or,  Three  Years  at  Nootka 
Sound,"  described  by  Mr.  Barker  as  a  melodramatic  sketch, 
founded  on  the  adventures  of  John  Jewett,  the  armourer  of  the 
ship  Boston,  in  which  Jewett  himself  assumed  the  hero's  role. 


The  Indian  Princess  569 

This  same  year  he  likewise  wrote  "How  to  Try  a  Lover,"  sug 
gested  by  Le  Brun's  novel.  Finally,  in  1824,  on  March  12,  there 
was  performed  "Superstition,"  a  five-act  drama.  This  closed 
the  account  that  Barker  sent  to  Dunlap. 

We  see  from  it  a  number  of  things  relative  to  placing  Barker 
as  a  literary  personage.  First,  his  interest  in  literature  made 
him  draw  from  all  sources,  combining  Scott  with  Holinshed, 
and  turning,  as  was  the  wont  of  the  cultivated  American  of  that 
day,  to  the  romantic  literatures  of  the  past.  Secondly,  Barker's 
interest  in  Colonial  History  was  manifest  by  his  return,  time  and 
time  again,  to  Colonial  records  for  dramatic  material.  Further 
more,  as  a  participant  in  the  political  disputes  of  his  day,  it 
would  have  been  a  surprise  had  Barker  not  directed  his  pen  to 
some  reflection  of  the  discussions  of  the  period. 

James  Nelson  Barker  was  the  son  of  the  Honourable  John 
Barker,  one-time  Mayor  of  Philadelphia,  and  ex-Revolutionary 
soldier.  He  was  born  in  that  city  on  June  17,  1784. 

His  education  was  received  in  Philadelphia,  and  he  must  have 
entered  the  literary  and  political  arenas  at  an  early  age.  After 
the  fashion  of  the  day,  he  was  trained  in  the  old-time  courtesy 
and  in  the  old-time  manner  of  defending  one's  honour  with  the 
sword,  for  it  is  recorded  that  he  was  once  severely  wounded  in 
a  duel. 

At  the  outbreak  of  the  War  of  1812,  he  received  a  commission, 
fighting  mostly  on  the  Canadian  frontier,  and  winning  distinction 
as  a  Captain  of  Artillery.  After  the  close  of  the  War,  he  was 
supported  by  the  Democratic  Party,  and  elected  Mayor  of  the 
City  of  Philadelphia.  Later,  he  upheld  "Old  Hickory"  for  the 
Presidency,  and,  after  filling  the  position  of  the  Collector  of  the 
Port  of  Philadelphia  from  1829-1838,  on  the  election  of  Van 
Buren  to  the  presidency,  he  was  appointed  First  Controller  of 
the  Treasury,  and  moved  to  Washington.  From  that  time  on, 
he  was  connected  with  the  highest  offices  in  the  department. 
His  pen  was  continually  dedicated  to  the  support  of  Democracy, 
and,  during  the  years  from  1832-1836,  he  figured  as  a  contributor 
to  many  papers  of  the  time  on  political  topics.  He  lived  until 
March  9,  1858. 

I  have  selected  his  play,  "The  Indian  Princess," l  as  an  example 

1  The/Indian  Princess ;/or,/La  Belle  Sauvage./An  Operatic  Melo-Drame./In  Three 
Acts./Performed  at  the  Theatres  Philadelphia  and/Baltimore./By  J.  N.  Barker./  j 
First  Acted  April  6,   i8o8./Philadelphia,/Printed  by  T.  &  G.  Palmer,/For  G.  E.  [ 
Blake,  No.  r,  South  Third-Street./i8o8./ 


570  Representative  Plays 

of  the  numberless  dramas  that  grew  up  around  the  character  of 
Pocahontas.  The  reader  will  find  it  particularly  of  interest  to 
contrast  with  this  piece  G.  W.  P.  Custis's  "Pocahontas;  or,  The 
Settlers  of  Virginia"  (1830),  and  John  Brougham's  burlesque, 
"Po-ca-hon-tas;  or,  The  Gentle  Savage." 

The  Indian  Drama,  in  America,  is  a  subject  well  worth  careful 
attention.  There  are  numberless  plays  mentioned  by  Laurence 
Hutton  in  his  "Curiosities  of  the  American  Stage"  which,  though 
interesting  as  titles,  have  not  been  located  as  far  as  manuscripts 
are  concerned. 

Barker's  "The  Indian  Princess"  is  one  of  the  earliest  that  deal 
with  the  character  of  Pocahontas.  The  subject  has  been  inter 
estingly  treated  in  an  article  by  Mr.  E.  J.  Streubel  (The  Colon 
nade,  New  York  University,  September,  1915). 

Barker  had  originally  intended  his  play,  "The  Indian  Princess," 
to  be  a  legitimate  drama,  instead  of  which,  when  it  was  first 
produced,  it  formed  the  libretto  for  the  music  by  a  man  named 
John  Bray,  of  the  New  Theatre.  In  his  letter  to  Dunlap,  he  says: 

" 'The  Indian  Princess,' in  three  acts  .  .  .  begun  some  time 
before,  was  taken  up  in  1808,  at  the  request  of  Bray,  and  worked 
up  into  an  opera,  the  music  to  which  he  composed.  It  was  first 
performed  for  his  benefit  on  the  6th  of  April,  1808,  to  a  crowded 
house;  but  Webster,  particularly  obnoxious,  at  that  period,  to 
a  large  party,  having  a  part  in  it,  a  tremendous  tumult  took 
place,  and  it  was  scarcely  heard.  I  was  on  the  stage,  and  directed 
the  curtain  to  be  dropped.  It  has  since  been  frequently  acted  in, 
I  believe,  all  the  theatres  of  the  United  States.  A  few  years 
since,  I  observed,  in  an  English  magazine,  a  critique  on  a  drama 
called  'Pocahontas;  or,  the  Indian  Princess,'  produced  at  Drury 
Lane.  From  the  sketch  given,  this  piece  differs  essentially  from 
mine  in  the  plan  and  arrangement;  and  yet,  according  to  the 
critic,  they  were  indebted  for  this  very  stupid  production  'to 
America,  where  it  is  a  great  favourite,  and  is  to  be  found  in  all 
the  printed  collections  of  stock  plays.'  The  copyright  of  the 
'Indian  Princess'  was  also  given  to  Blake,  and  transferred  to 
Longworth.  It  was  printed  in  1808  or  1809.  George  Washington 
Custis,  of  Arlington,  has,  I  am  told,  written  a  drama  on  the  same 
subject." 

An  account  of  the  riot  is  to  be  found  in  Durang's  "History  of 
the  Philadelphia  Stage,"  and  the  reader,  in  order  to  gain  some 
knowledge  of  the  popularity  of  "The  Indian  Princess,"  may 


The  Indian  Princess  571 

likewise  obtain  interesting  material  in  Manager  Wood's  "Diary," 
the  manuscript  of  which  is  now  in  possession  of  the  University 
of  Pennsylvania.  When  the  play  was  given  in  Philadelphia,  the 
advertisement  announced,  "The  principal  materials  forming  this 
dramatic  trifle  are  extracted  from  the  General  History  of  Virginia, 
written  by  Captain  Smith,  and  printed  London,  folio,  1624;  and 
as  close  an  adherence  to  historic  truth  has  been  preserved  as 
dramatic  rules  would  allow  of." 

It  was  given  its  first  New  York  production  at  the  Park  Theatre 
on  June  14,  1808. 


1 


THE 

INDIAN  PRINCESS 

OB, 

LA  BELLE  SAUFAGE. 

AN  OPERATIC  MELO-DRAME. 

IN   THREE   ACTS. 

PERFORMED   AT    THE    THEATRES    PHILADELPHIA.   AND 
BALTIMORE. 

BY  J.  N.  BARKER. 

FIRST    ACTED    APRIL   6,   1808. 

PHILADELPHIA, 

PRINTED    BY   T.  &  G.   PALMER, 
FOR   G.  "E.    BLAKE,    KO.  1,   SOUTH    THIRD-STREET, 


1808. 


FAC -SIMILE  TITLE-PAGE  TO  THE  1808  EDITION 


PREFACE 

While  I  am  proud  to  acknowledge  my  grateful  sense  of  those 
flattering  marks  of  liberal  kindness  with  which  my  dramatic 
entree  has  been  greeted  by  an  indulgent  audience,  I  feel  so  fully 
conscious  of  the  very  humble  merit  of  this  little  piece,  that  per 
haps  nothing  but  the  peculiar  circumstances  under  which  it  was 
acted  should  have  induced  me  to  publish  it.  In  sending  it  tcT| 
the  press  I  am  perfectly  apprized  of  the  probability  that  it  goes 
only  to  add  one  more  to  the  list  of  those  unfortunate  children 
of  the  American  drama,  who,  in  the  brief  space  that  lies  between 
their  birth  and  death,  are  doomed  to  wander,  without  house  or 
home,  unknown  and  unregarded,  or  who,  if  heeded  at  all,  are 
only  picked  up  by  some  critic  beadle  to  receive  the  usual  treat 
ment  of  vagrants.  Indeed,  were  I  disposed  to  draw  comfort 
from  the  misfortunes  of  others,  I  might  make  myself  happy 
with  the  reflection,  that  however  my  vagabond  might  deserve 
the  lash,  it  would  receive  no  more  punishment  than  those  who 
deserved  none  at  all;  for  the  gentlemen  castigators  seldom  take 
the  pains  to  distinguish  Innocence  from  Guilt,  but  most  liberally 
bestow  their  stripes  on  all  poor  wanderers  who  are  unhappily  of 
American  parentage.  Far,  however,  from  rejoicing  at  this 
circumstance,  I  sincerely  deplore  it.  In  all  ages,  and  in  every 
country,  even  the  sturdiest  offspring  of  genius  have  felt  the 
necessity  and  received  the  aid  of  a  protecting  hand  of  favour  to 
support  and  guide  their  first  trembling  and  devious  footsteps; 
it  is  not,  therefore,  wonderful,  that  here,  where  every  art  is  yet 
but  in  its  infancy,  the  youthful  exertions  of  dramatic  poetry, 
unaided  and  unsupported,  should  fail,  and  that  its  imbecile 
efforts  should  for  ever  cease  with  the  failure;  that  chilled  by 
total  neglect,  or  chid  with  undeserved  severity;  depressed  by 
ridicule,  starved  by  envy,  and  stricken  to  the  earth  by  malevo 
lence,  the  poor  orphan,  heartless  and  spirit-broken,  should  pine 
away  a  short  and  sickly  life.  I  am  not,  I  believe,  quite  coxcomb 
enough  to  advance  the  most  distant  hint  that  the  child  of  my 
brain  deserves  a  better  fate;  that  it  may  meet  with  it  I  might, 
however,  be  indulged  in  hoping,  under  the  profession  that  the 


Representative  Plays 

hope  proceeds  from  considerations  distinct  from  either  it  or 
myself.  Dramatic  genius,  with  genius  of  every  other  kind,  is 
assuredly  native  of  our  soil,  and  there  wants  but  the  wholesome 
and  kindly  breath  of  favour  to  invigourate  its  delicate  frame,  and 
bid  it  rapidly  arise  from  its  cradle  to  blooming  maturity.  But 
alas!  poor  weak  ones!  what  a  climate  are  ye  doomed  to  draw 
your  first  breath  in!  the  teeming  press  has  scarcely  ceased 
groaning  at  your  delivery,  ere  you  are  suffocated  with  the  stag 
nant  atmosphere  of  entire  apathy,  or  swept  out  of  existence  by 

[  the  hurricane  of  unsparing,  indiscriminating  censure! 

Good  reader,  I  begin  to  suspect  that  I  have  held  you  long 

•  enough  by  the  button.  Yet,  maugre  my  terror  of  being  tiresome, 
and  in  despite  of  my  clear  anticipation  of  the  severe  puns  which 
will  be  made  in  this  punning  city,  on  my  childish  preface,  I  must 
push  my  allusion  a  little  further,  to  deprecate  the  wrath  of 
the  critics,  and  arouse  the  sympathies  of  the  ladies.  Then,  O 
ye  sage  censors!  ye  goody  gossips  at  poetic  births!  I  vehemently 
importune  ye  to  be  convinced,  that  for  my  bantling  I  desire 
neither  rattle  nor  bells;  neither  the  lullaby  of  praise,  nor  the 
pap  of  patronage,  nor  the  hobby-horse  of  honour.  Tis  a  plain- 
palated,  home-bred,  and  I  may  add  independent  urchin,  who 
laughs  at  sugar  plums,  and  from  its  little  heart  disdains  gilded 
gingerbread.  If  you  like  it — so;  if  not — why  so;  yet,  without 
being  mischievous,  it  would  fain  be  amusing;  therefore,  if  its 
gambols  be  pleasant,  and  your  gravities  permit,  laugh;  if  not, 
e'en  turn  aside  your  heads,  and  let  the  wanton  youngling  laugh 
by  itself.  If  it  speak  like  a  sensible  child,  prithee,  pat  its  cheek, 
and  say  so;  but  if  it  be  ridiculous  when  it  would  be  serious, 
smile,  and  permit  the  foolish  attempt  to  pass.  But  do  not,  O 
goody  critic,  apply  the  birch,  because  its  unpractised  tongue 
cannot  lisp  the  language  of  Shakspeare,  nor  be  very  much 
enraged,  if  you  find  it  has  to  creep  before  it  can  possibly  walk. 
To  your  bosoms,  ladies,  sweet  ladies!  the  little  stranger  flies 
with  confidence  for  protection;  shield  it,  I  pray  you,  from  the 
iron  rod  of  rigour,  and  scold  it  yourselves,  as  much  as  you  will, 
for  on  your  smooth  and  polished  brows  it  can  never  read  wrinkled 
cruelty;  the  mild  anger  of  your  eyes  will  not  blast  it  like  the 
fierce  scowl  of  the  critic;  the  chidings  of  your  voice  will  be 
soothing  music  to  it,  and  it  will  discover  the  dimple  of  kindness 
in  your  very  frowns.  Caresses  it  does  not  ask;  its  modesty 
would  shrink  from  that  it  thought  it  deserved  not;  but  if  its 


The  Indian  Princess  577 

faults  be  infantile,  its  punishment  should  be  gentle,  and  from 
you,  dear  ladies,  correction  would  be  as  thrillingly  sweet  as  that 
the  little  Jean  Jacques  received  from  the  fair  hand  of 
Mademoiselle  Lambercier. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


ADVERTISEMENT 

The  principal  materials  that  form  this  dramatic  trifle  are 
extracted  from  the  General  History  of  Virginia,  written  by 
Captain  Smith,  and  printed  London,  folio,  1624;  and  as  close 
an  adherence  to  historic  truth  has  been  preserved  as  dramatic 
rules  would  allow  of.  The  music  1  was  furnished  by  Mr.  John 
Bray,  of  the  New  Theatre. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

EUROPEANS. 

DELAWAR,  Mr.  Warren. 

CAPTAIN  SMITH,  Mr.  Rutherford. 

LIEUTENANT  ROLFE,  Mr.  Wood. 

PERCY,  Mr.  Charnock. 

WALTER,  Mr.  Bray. 

LARRY,  Mr.  Webster. 

ROBIN,  Mr.  Jefferson. 

TALMAN,  Mr.  Durang. 

GERALDINE,  Mrs.  Francis. 

KATE,  Miss  Hunt. 

ALICE,  Mrs.  Mills. 

SOLDIERS  and  ADVENTURERS. 

VIRGINIANS. 

POWHATAN,  king,  Mr.  Serson. 

NANTAQUAS,  his  son,  Mr.  Cone. 

MIAMI,  a  prince,  Mr.  Mills. 

GRIMOSCO,  a  priest,  Mr.  Cross. 

POCAHONTAS,  the  princess,  Mrs.  Wilmot. 

NIMA,  her  attendant,  Miss  Mullen. 

WARRIORS  and  INDIAN  GIRLS. 

SCENE,  Virginia. 

i  The  music  is  now  published  and  sold  by  Mr.  G.  E.  Blake,  No.  i,  South  Third- 
street,  Philadelphia. 


THE  INDIAN  PRINCESS 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  Powhatan  River;  wild  and  picturesque.  Ships  appear. 
Barges  approach  the  shore,  from  which  land  SMITH,  ROLFE, 
PERCY,  WALTER,  LARRY,  ROBIN,  ALICE,  &c. 

Chorus. 

Jolly  comrades,  raise  the  glee, 
Chorus  it  right  cheerily; 
For  the  tempest's  roar  is  heard  no  more, 
And  gaily  we  tread  the  wish'd-for  shore: 

Then  raise  the  glee  merrily, 

Chorus  it  cheerily, 
For  past  are  the  perils  of  the  blustering  sea. 

SMITH.   Once  more,  my  bold  associates,  welcome.  Mark 
What  cheery  aspects  look  upon  our  landing: 
The  face  of  Nature  dimples  o'er  with  smiles, 
The  heav'ns  are  cloudless,  whiles  the  princely  sun, 
As  glad  to  greet  us  in  his  fair  domain, 
Gives  us  gay  salutation — 

LARRY.    [To  WALTER.]  By  St.  Patrick 

His  fiery  majesty  does  give  warm  welcome. 
Arrah !  his  gracious  smiles  are  melting — 

WALTER.  Plague ! 

He  burthens  us  with  favours  till  we  sweat. 

SMITH.   What  think  ye,  Percy,  Rolfe,  have  we  not  found 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  faithful  in  his  tale? 
Is  't  not  a  goodly  land?    Along  the  bay, 
How  gay  and  lovely  lie  its  skirting  shores, 
Fring'd  with  the  summer's  rich  embroidery! 

PERCY.    Believe  me,  sir,  I  ne'er  beheld  that  spot 
Where  Nature  holds  more  sweet  varieties. 

SMITH.   The  gale  was  kind  that  blew  us  hitherward. 
This  noble  bay  were  undiscover'd  still, 
Had  not  that  storm  arose  propitious, 


580  Representative  Plays 

And,  like  the  ever  kindly  breath  of  heav'n, 
Which  sometimes  rides  upon  the  tempest's  wing, 
Driv'n  us  to  happiest  destinies,  e'en  then 
When  most  we  fear'd  destruction  from  the  blast. 

ROLFE.    Let  our  dull,  sluggish  countrymen  at  home 
Still  creep  around  their  little  isle  of  fogs, 
Drink  its  dank  vapours,  and  then  hang  themselves. 
In  this  free  atmosphere  and  ample  range 
The  bosom  can  dilate,  the  pulses  play, 
And  man,  erect,  can  walk  a  manly  round. 

ROBIN.  [Aside.  ]  Aye,  and  be  scalp'd  and  roasted  by  the  Indians. 

SMITH.   Now,  gallant  cavalier  adventurers, 
On  this  our  landing  spot  we'll  rear  a  town 
Shall  bear  our  good  king's  name  to  after-time, 
And  yours  along  with  it;   for  ye  are  men 
Well  worth  the  handing  down;  whose  paged  names 
Will  not  disgrace  posterity  to  read: 
Men  born  for  acts  of  hardihood  and  valour, 
Whose  stirring  spirits  scorn 'd  to  lie  inert, 
Base  atoms  in  the  mass  of  population 
That  rots  in  stagnant  Europe^  Ye  are  men 
Who  a  high  wealth  and  fame  will  bravely  win, 
And  wear  full  worthily.    I  still  shall  be 
The  foremost  in  all  troubles,  toil,  and  danger, 
Your  leader  and  your  captain,  nought  exacting 
Save  strict  obedience  to  the  watchful  care 
Which  points  to  your  own  good :  be  wary  then, 
And  let  not  any  mutinous  hand  unravel 
Our  close  knit  compact.    Union  is  its  strength : 
Be  that  remember'd  ever.    Gallant  gentlemen, 
We  have  a  noble  stage,  on  which  to  act 
A  noble  drama;  let  us  then  sustain 
Our  sev'ral  parts  with  credit  and  with  honour. 
Now,  sturdy  comrades,  cheerly  to  our  tasks! 

[Exeunt  SMITH,  ROLFE,  &c. 

SCENE  II.   A  grove. 

Enter  WALTER  and  LARRY. 

LARRY.    Now  by  the  black  eyes  of  my  Katy,  but  that  master 
of  yours  and  captain  of  mine  is  a  prince! 


The  Indian  Princess  581 

WALTER.  Tut,  you  hav'n't  seen  an  inch  yet  of  the  whole  hero. 
Had  you  followed  him  as  I  have,  from  a  knee-high  urchin,  you'd 
confess  that  there  never  was  soldier  fit  to  cry  comrade  to  him. 
O!  'twould  have  made  your  blood  frisk  in  your  veins  to  have 
seen  him  in  Turkey  and  Tartary,  when  he  made  the  clumsy 
infidels  dance  to  the  music  of  his  broad  sword ! 

LARRY.  Troth  now,  the  mussulmans  may  have  been  mightily 
amused  by  the  caper;  but  for  my  part  I  should  modestly  prefer 
skipping  to  the  simple  jig  of  an  Irish  bag-pipe. 

WALTER.  Then  he  had  the  prettiest  mode  of  forming  their 
manners — 

LARRY.   Arrah,  how  might  that  be? 

WALTER.  For  example:  whenever  they  were  so  ill-bred  as  to 
appear  with  their  turbans  on  before  him,  he  uses  me  this  keen 
argument  to  convince  them  they  shewed  discourtesy.  He  whips 
me  out  his  sword,  and  knocks  their  turbans  off — 

LARRY.   Knocks  their  turbans  off? 

WALTER.   Aye,  egad,  and  their  heads  to  boot. 

LARRY.  A  dev'lish  cutting  way  of  reasoning  indeed;  that 
argument  cou'dn't  be  answered  asily. 

WALTER.  Devil  a  tongue  ever  wagg'd  in  replication,  Larry. 
— Ah!  my  fairy  of  felicity — my  mouthful  of  melody — my  wife — 

Enter  ALICE. 

Well,  Alice,  we  are  now  in  the  wilds  of  Virginia,  and,  tell  me 
truly,  doesn't  repent  following  me  over  the  ocean,  wench?  wilt 
be  content  in  these  wild  woods,  with  only  a  little  husband,  and 
a  great  deal  of  love,  pretty  Alice? 

ALICE.  Can  you  ask  that?  are  not  all  places  alike  if  you  are 
with  me,  Walter? 

Song. — ALICE. 

In  this  wild  wood  will  I  range; 

Listen,  listen,  dear! 
Nor  sigh  for  towns  so  fine,  to  change 

This  forest  drear. 
Toils  and  dangers  I'll  despise, 

Never,  never  weary ; 
And  be,  while  love  is  in  thine  eyes, 

Ever  cheery. 


582  Representative  Plays 

Ah!  what  to  me  were  cities  gay; 

Listen,  listen,  dear! 
If  from  me  thou  wert  away, 

Alas!  how  drear! 
Oh!  still  o'er  sea,  o'er  land  I'll  rove, 

Never,  never  weary; 
And  follow  on  where  leads  my  love, 

Ever  cheery. 

LARRY.   Och !  the  creature ! 

WALTER.   Let  my  lips  tell  thee  what  my  tongue  cannot.   [Kiss. 

LARRY.  Aye,  do,  do  stop  her  mellifluous  mouth;  for  the  little 
nightingale  warbles  so  like  my  Kate,  she  makes  me  sigh  for  Balli- 
namone;  ah!  just  so  would  the  constant  creature  carol  all  day 
about,  roving  through  the  seas  and  over  the  woods. 

Enter  ROBIN. 

ROBIN.  Master  Walter,  the  captain  is  a  going  to  explore  the 
country,  and  you  must  along. 

WALTER.   That's  our  fine  captain,  always  stirring. 

ROBIN.  Plague  on  his  industry!  would  you  think  it,  we  are 
all  incontinently  to  fall  a  chopping  down  trees,  and  building  our 
own  houses,  like  the  beavers. 

LARRY.  Well,  sure,  that's  the  fashionable  mode  of  paying 
rent  in  this  country. 

ALICE.  O,  Walter,  these  merciless  savages!  I  sha'n't  be  merry 
till  you  return — 

ROBIN.  I  warrant  ye,  mistress  Alice — Lord  love  you  I  shall 
be  here. 

WALTER.  Cheerly,  girl;  our  captain  will  make  the  red  rogues 
scamper  like  so  many  dun  deer.  Savages,  quotha!  at  sight  of 
him,  their  copper  skins  will  turn  pale  as  silver,  with  the  very 
alchemy  of  fear.  Come,  a  few  kisses,  en  passant,  and  then  away ! 
cheerly,  my  dainty  Alice.  [Exeunt  WALTER  and  ALICE. 

ROBIN.  Aye,  go  your  ways,  master  Walter,  and  when  you  are 
gone — 

LARRY.  What  then!  I  suppose  you'll  be  after  talking  nonsense 
to  his  wife.  But  if  ever  I  catch  you  saying  your  silly  things — 

ROBIN.  Mum,  Lord  love  you,  how  can  you  think  it?  But 
hark  ye,  master  Larry,  in  this  same  drama  that  our  captain 
spoke  of,  you  and  I  act  parts,  do  we  not? 


The  Indian  Princess  583 

LARRY.   Arrah,  to  be  sure,  we  are  men  of  parts. 

ROBIN.  Shall  I  tell  you  in  earnest  what  we  play  in  this  merry 
comedy? 

LARRY.    Be  doing  it. 

ROBIN.  Then  we  play  the  parts  of  two  fools,  look  you,  to 
part  with  all  at  home,  and  come  to  these  savage  parts,  where, 
Heaven  shield  us,  our  heads  may  be  parted  from  our  bodies. 
Think  what  a  catastrophe,  master  Larry ! 

LARRY.  So  the  merry  comedy  ends  a  doleful  tragedy,  and 
exit  fool  in  the  character  of  a  hero!  That's  glory,  sirrah,  a  very 
feather  in  our  cap. 

ROBIN.  A  light  gain  to  weigh  against  the  heavy  loss  of  one's 
head.  Feather  quotha!  what  use  of  a  plumed  hat  without  a 
head  to  wear  it  withal? 

LARRY.   Tut,  man,  our  captain  will  lead  us  through  all  dangers. 

ROBIN.  Will  he?  an'  he  catch  me  following  him  through 
these  same  dangers — 

LARRY.   Och,  you  spalpeen!    I  mean  he'll  lead  us  out  of  peril. 

ROBIN.  Thank  him  for  nothing;  for  I've  predetermined,  look 
you,  not  to  be  led  into  peril.  Oh,  master  Larry,  what  a  plague 
had  I  to  do  to  leave  my  snug  cot  and  my  brown  lass,  to  follow 
master  Rolfe  to  this  devil  of  a  country,  where  there's  never  a 
girl  nor  a  house ! 

LARRY.  Out,  you  driveller!  didn't  I  leave  as  neat  a  black-ey'd 
girl,  and  as  pretty  a  prolific  potato-patch  all  in  tears — 

ROBIN  Your  potato-patch  in  tears!  that's  a  bull,  master 
Larry — 

LARRY.  You're  a  calf,  master  Robin.  Wasn't  it  raining? 
Och,  I  shall  never  forget  it;  the  thunder  rolling,  and  her  tongue 
a-going,  and  her  tears  and  (the  rain;  och,  bother,  but  it  was  a 
dismal  morning! 

Song — LARRY. 

I. 

Och !  dismal  and  dark  was  the  day,  to  be  sure, 
When  Larry  took  leave  of  sweet  Katy  Maclure; 
And  clouds  dark  as  pitch  hung  just  like  a  black  lace 
O'er  the  sweet  face  of  Heav'n  and  my  Katy's  sweet  face. 
Then,  while  the  wind  blow'd,  and  she  sigh'd  might  and  main, 
Drops  from  the  black  skies 
Fell — and  from  her  black  eyes; 
Och!  how  I  was  soak'd  with  her  tears — and  the  rain. 


584  Representative  Plays 

[Speaks.]  And  then  she  gave  me  this  beautiful  keep-sake 
[Shows  a  pair  of  scissors.  ],  which  if  ever  I  part  with,  may  a  tailor 
clip  me  in  two  with  his  big  shears.  Och !  when  Katy  took  you 
in  hand,  how  nicely  did  you  snip  and  snap  my  bushy,  carroty 
locks;  and  now  you're  cutting  the  hairs  of  my  heart  to  pieces, 
you  tieves  you — 

[Sings.]  Och!  Hubbaboo — Gramachree — Hone! 

II. 

When  I  went  in  the  garden,  each  bush  seem'd  to  sigh 
Because  I  was  going — and  nod  me  good-bye ; 
Each  stem  hung  its  head,  drooping  bent  like  a  bow, 
With  the  weight  of  the  water — or  else  of  its  woe; 
And  while  sorrow,  or  wind,  laid  some  flat  on  the  ground, 
Drops  of  rain,  or  of  grief, 
Fell  from  every  leaf, 
Till  I  thought  in  a  big  show'r  of  tears  I  was  drown'd. 

[Speaks.]  And  then  each  bush  and  leaf  seem'd  to  sigh,  and  say, 
"don't  forget  us,  Larry."  I  won't,  said  I. — "But  arrah,  take 
something  for  remembrance,"  said  they;  and  then  I  dug  up  this 
neat  jewel  [Shows  a  potato.]-,  you're  a  little  withered  to  be  sure, 
but  if  ever  I  forget  your  respectable  family,  or  your  delightful 
dwelling  place — may  I  never  again  see  any  of  your  beautiful 
brothers  and  plump  sisters! — Och!  my  darling,  if  you  had  come 
hot  from  the  hand  of  Katy,  how  my  mouth  would  have  watered 
at  ye;  now,  you  divil,  you  bring  the  water  into  my  eyes. 

[Sings.]  Och!  Hubbaboo — Gramachree — Hone!  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.    Werocomoco,  the  royal  village  of  POWHATAN.    INDIAN 
GIRLS  arranging  ornaments  for  a  bridal  dress.   Music. 

NIMA.  Let  us  make  haste,  my  companions,  to  finish  the  dress 
of  the  bride;  to-day  the  prince  Miami  returns  with  our  hunters 
from  the  chase;  to-morrow  he  will  bear  away  our  princess  to 
his  own  nation. 

Enter  POCAHONTAS  from  the  wood,  with  bow  and  arrow,  and  a 
flamingo  (red  bird).     Music  as  she  enters. 
PRINCESS.   See,  Nima,  a  flamingo. 


The  Indian  Princess  585 

INDIAN  GIRLS  crowd  around,  and  admire  the  bird. 
PRINCESS.   O  Nima!    I  will  use  my  bow  no  longer;   I  go  out 
to  the  wood,  and  my  heart  is  light;   but  while  my  arrow  flies,  I 
sorrow;    and  when  the  bird  drops  through  the  branches,  tears 
come  into  mine  eyes.    I  will  no  longer  use  my  bow. 

Distant  hunting-horn.    Music.    They  place  themselves  in  attitudes 

of  listening.    Hunting-horn  nearer. 

NIMA.  Tis  Miami  and  our  hunters.  Princess,  why  are  your 
looks  sad? 

PRINCESS.   O  Nima!  the  prince  comes  to  bear  me  far  from 
my  father  and  my  brother.    I  must  quit  for  ever  the  companions 
and  the  woods  that  are  dear  to  me.    Nima,  the  Susquehannocks"! 
are  a  powerful  nation,  and  my  father  would  have  them  for  his 
friends.    He  gives  his  daughter  to  their  prince,  but  his  daughter! 
trembles  to  look  upon  the  fierce  Miami. 

Music.  HUNTERS  seen  winding  down  the  hills;  they  are  met  by  the 
women  of  the  village;  MIAMI  approaches  POCAHONTAS,  and  his 
attendants  lay  skins  at  her  feet. 

MIAMI.  Princess,  behold  the  spoils  I  bring  thee.  Our  hunters 
are  laden  with  the  deer  and  the  soft  furred  beaver.  But  Miami 
scorned  such  prey:  I  watched  for  the  mighty  buffalo  and  the 
shaggy  bear;  my  club  felled  them  to  the  ground,  and  I  tore  their 
skins  from  their  backs.  The  fierce  carcajou  had  wound  himself 
around  the  tree,  ready  to  dart  upon  the  hunter;  but  the  hunter's 
eyes  were  not  closed,  and  the  carcajou  quivered  on  the  point 
of  my  spear.  I  heard  the  wolf  howl  as  he  looked  at  the  moon, 
and  the  beams  that  feel  upon  his  upturned  face  shewed  my 
tomahawk  the  spot  it  was  to  enter.  I  marked  where  the  panther 
had  crouched,  and,  before  he  could  spring,  my  arrow  went  into 
his  heart.  Behold  the  spoil  the  Susquehannock  brings  thee! 

PRINCESS.  Susquehannock,  thou'rt  a  mighty  hunter.  Pow- 
hatan  shall  praise  thee  for  his  daughter.  But  why  returns  not 
my  brother  with  thee? 

MIAMI.  Nantaquas  still  finds  pleasure  in  the  hunt,  but  the 
soul  of  Miami  grew  weary  of  being  away  from  Werocomoco,  for 
there  dwelt  the  daughter  of  Powhatan. 

PRINCESS.   Let  us  go  to  my  father. 

Music.  Exeunt  PRINCESS  and  MIAMI  into  palace,  folloi»ea  by 
NIMA  and  train;  the  others  into  their  several  cabins. 


586 


Representative  Plays 


SCENE   IV.   A    Forest.     SMITH  enters,   bewildered  in  its  mazes. 
Music,  expressive  of  his  situation. 


SMITH.    'Tis  all  in  vain !  no  clue  to  guide  my  steps. 
By  this  the  explorers  have  return'd  despairing, 
And  left  their  forward  leader  to  his  fate. 
The  rashness  is  well  punish'd,  that,  alone, 
Would  brave  the  entangling  mazes  of  these  wilds. 
The  night  comes  on,  and  soon  these  gloomy  woods 
Will  echo  to  the  yell  of  savage  beasts, 
And  savage  men  more  merciless.   Alas! 
And  am  I,  after  all  my  golden  dreams 
Of  laurel'd  glory,  doom'd  in  wilds  to  fall, 
Ignobly  and  obscure,  the  prey  of  brutes? 
Fie  on  these  coward  thoughts!  this  trusty  sword, 
That  made  the  Turk  and  Tartar  crouch  beneath  me, 
Will  stead  me  well,  e'en  in  this  wilderness. 


[Music. 


[Music. 


\Music. 


O  glory!  thou  who  led'st  me  fearless  on, 

WThere  death  stalk'd  grimly  over  slapghter'd  heaps, 

Or  drank  the  drowning  shrieks  of  shipwreck'd  wretches, 

Swell  high  the  bosom  of  thy  votary !  [Music.   Exit  SMITH 

Music.  A  party  of  INDIANS  enter,  as  following  SMITH,  and  steal 
cautiously  after  him.  The  Indian  yell  within.  Music,  hurried. 
Re-enter  SMITH,  engaged  with  the  INDIANS;  several  fall.  Exeunt, 
fighting,  and  enter  from  the  opposite  side  the  Prince  NANTAQUAS, 
who  views  with  wonder  the  prowess  of  SMITH;  when  the  music 
has  ceased  he  speaks. 

Sure  'tis  our  war-god,  Aresqui  himself,  who  lays  our  chiefs  low! 
Now  they  stop;  he  fights  no  longer;  he  stands  terrible  as  the 
panther,  which  the  fearful  hunter  dares  not  approach.  Stranger, 
brave  stranger,  Nantaquas  must  know  thee!  [Music. 

He  rushes  out,  and  re-enters  with  SMITH. 

PRINCE.   Art  thou  not  then  a  God? 

SMITH.   As  thou  art,  warrior,  but  a  man. 

PRINCE.  Then  art  thou  a  man  like  a  God;  thou  shalt  be  the 
brother  of  Nantaquas.  Stranger,  my  father  is  king  of  the  coun 
try,  and  many  nations  obey  him :  will  thou  be  the  friend  of  the 
great  Powhatan? 


The  Indian  Princess  587 

SMITH.  Freely,  prince;  I  left  my  own  country  to  be  the  red 
man's  friend. 

PRINCE.   Wonderful  man,  where  is  thy  country? 

SMITH.    It  lies  far  beyond  the  wide  water. 

PRINCE.  Is  there  then  a  world  beyond  the  wide  water?  I 
thought  only  the  sun  had  been  there:  thou  comest  then  from 
behind  the  sun? 

SMITH.    Not  so,  prince. 

PRINCE.  Listen  to  me.  Thy  country  lies  beyond  the  wide 
water,  and  from  it  do  mine  eyes  behold  the  sun  rise  each  morning. 

SMITH.  Prince,  to  your  sight  he  seems  to  rise  from  thence, 
but  your  eyes  are  deceived,  they  reach  not  over  the  wilderness  of 
waters. 

PRINCE.   Where  sleeps  the  sun  then? 

SMITH.  The  sun  never  sleeps.  When  you  see  him  sink  behind 
the  mountains,  he  goes  to  give  light  to  other  countries,  where 
darkness  flies  before  him,  as  it  does  here,  when  you  behold  him 
rise  in  the  east:  thus  he  chases  Night  for  ever  round  the  world. 

PRINCE.  Tell  me,  wise  stranger,  how  came  you  from  your 
country  across  the  wide  water?  when  our  canoes  venture  but 
a  little  from  the  shore,  the  waves  never  fail  to  swallow  them  up. 

SMITH.  Prince,  the  Great  Spirit  is  the  friend  of  the  white  men, 
and  they  have  arts  which  the  red  men  know  not. 

PRINCE.    My  brother,  will  you  teach  the  red  men? 

SMITH.  I  come  to  do  it.  My  king  is  a  king  of  a  mighty  nation ; 
he  is  great  and  good :  go,  said  he,  go  and  make  the  red  men  wise 
and  happy. 

During  the  latter  part  of  the  dialogue,  the  INDIANS  had  crept  in, 
still  approaching  till  they  had  almost  surrounded  SMITH.  A 
burst  of  savage  music.  They  seize  and  bear  him  off,  the  PRINCE 
in  vain  endeavouring  to  prevent  it. 

PRINCE.  Hold!  the  white  man  is  the  brother  of  your  prince; 
hold,  coward  warriors!  [He  rushes  out. 

SCENE  V.   Powhatan  River,  as  the  first  scene. 

Enter  LARRY. 

Now  do  I  begin  to  suspect,  what,  to  be  sure,  I've  been  certain 
of  a  long  time,  that  master  Robin's  a  little  bit  of  a  big  rogue.  I 


588  Representative  Plays 

just  now  observed  him  with  my  friend  Walter's  wife.  Arrah! 
here  they  come.  By  your  leave,  fair  dealing,  I'll  play  the  eaves 
dropper  behind  this  tree.  [Retires  behind  a  tree. 

Enter  ALICE,  followed  by  ROBIN. 

ROBIN.    But,  mistress  Alice,  pretty  Alice. 
ALICE.    Ugly  Robin,  I'll  not  hear  a  syllable. 
ROBIN.    But  plague,  prithee,  Alice,  why  so  coy? 

Enter  WALTER  [observing  them,  stops]. 

ALICE.  Master  Robin,  if  you  follow  me  about  any  longer  with 
your  fooleries,  my  Walter  shall  know  of  it. 

ROBIN.  A  fig  for  Walter!  is  he  to  be  mentioned  the  same  day 
with  the  dapper  Robin?  can  Walter  make  sonnets  and  madrigals, 
and  set  them,  and  sing  them?  besides,  the  Indians  have  eat  him 
by  this,  I  hope. 

WALTER.   Oh,  the  rascal ! 

ROBIN.  Come,  pretty  one,  quite  alone,  no  one  near,  even  that 
blundering  Irishman  away. 

LARRY.   O  you  spalpeen!    I'll  blunder  on  you  anon. 

ROBIN.   Shall  we,  Alice,  shall  we? 

Quarteito. 

ROBIN.  Mistress  Alice,  say, 

Walter's  far  away, 

Pretty  Alice! 
Nay,  now — prithee,  pray, 
Shall  we,  Alice?  hey! 
Mistress  Alice? 

ALICE.  Master  Robin,  nay — 

Prithee,  go  your  way, 

Saucy  Robin! 
If  you  longer  stay, 
You  may  rue  the  day, 
Master  Robin. 

WALTER. [A side.]  True  my  Alice  is. 
LARRY.    [Aside.]  Wat  shall  know  of  this. 
ROBIN.    [Struggling.]    Pretty  Alice! 
WALTER.    [Aside.]    What  a  rascal 'tis! 
LARRY.    [Aside.]   He'll  kill  poor  Rob,  I  wis! 


The  Indian  Princess  589 

ROBIN.    [Struggling.]        Mistress  Alice, 

Let  me  taste  the  bliss — 

[Attempts  to  kiss  her. 

ALICE.  Taste  the  bliss  of  this,  [Slaps  his  face. 

Saucy  Robin! 

WALTER.    [Advancing.]  Oh,  -vhat  wond'rous  bliss! 

LARRY.    [Advancing.]  How  d'ye  like  the  kiss? 

ALICE.       ) 

WALTER,  j-  Master  Robin? 

LARRY.     J 

[ROBIN  steals  off. 

WALTER.  Jackanapes ! 

LARRY.  Aye,  hop  off,  cock  robin!  Blood  and  thunder  now, 
that  such  a  sparrow  should  try  to  turn  hawk,  and  pounce  on 
your  little  pullet  here. 

ALICE.   Welcome,  my  bonny  Walter. 

WALTER.  A  sweet  kiss,  Alice,  to  season  my  bitter  tidings. 
Our  captain's  lost. 

LARRY.  \  ,       . 

ALICE.   |  Lost! 

WALTER.  You  shall  hear.  A  league  or  two  below  this,  we 
entered  a  charming  stream,  that  seemed  to  glide  through  a  fairy 
land  of  fertility.  I  must  know  more  of  this,  said  our  captain. 
Await  my  return  here.  So  bidding  us  moor  the  pinnace  in  a 
broad  basin,  where  the  Indian's  arrows  could  reach  us  from 
neither  side,  away  he  went,  alone  in  his  boat,  to  explore  the  river 
to  its  head. 

LARRY.   Gallant  soul ! 

WALTER.  What  devil  prompted  us  to  disobey  his  command 
I  know  not,  but  scarce  was  he  out  of  sight,  when  we  landed ;  and 
mark  the  end  on't:  up  from  their  ambuscado  started  full  three 
hundred  black  fiends,  with  a  yell  that  might  have  appalled 
Lucifer,  and  whiz  came  a  cloud  of  arrows  about  our  ears.  Three 
tall  fellows  of  ours  fell:  Cassen,  Emery,  and  Robinson.  Our 
lieutenant,  with  Percy  and  myself,  fought  our  way  to  the  water 
side,  where,  leaving  our  canoe  as  a  trophy  to  the  victors,  we 
plunged  in,  ducks,  and,  after  swimming,  dodging,  and  diving 
like  regained  the  pinnace  that  we  had  left  like  geese. 

ALICE.  Heaven  be  praised,  you  are  safe;  but  our  poor 
captain — 


590  Representative  Plays 

WALTER.  Aye;  the  day  passed  and  he  returned  not;  we  came 
back  for  a  reinforcement,  and  to-morrow  we  find  him,  or  perish. 

ALICE.    Perish! — 

WALTER.  Aye;  shame  seize  the  poltroon  who  wou'dn't  perish 
in  such  a  cause;  wou'dn't  you,  Larry? 

LARRY.  By  Saint  Patrick,  it's  the  thing  I  would  do,  and  hould 
my  head  the  higher  for  it  all  the  days  of  my  life  after. 

WALTER.   But  see,  our  lieutenant  and  master  Percy. 

Enter  ROLFE  and  PERCY. 

ROLFE.   Good  Walter  look  to  the  barge,  see  it  be  ready 
By  earliest  dawn. 

WALTER.  I  shall,  sir. 

ROLFE.  And  be  careful, 

This  misadventure  be  not  buzz'd  abroad, 
Where  't  may  breed  mutiny  and  mischief.    Say 
We've  left  the  captain  waiting  our  return, 
Safe  with  the  other  three;  meantime,  choose  out 
Some  certain  trusty  fellows,  who  will  swear 
Bravely  to  find  their  captain  or  their  death. 

WALTER.   I'll  hasten,  sir,  about  it. 

LARRY.  Good  lieutenant, 

Shall  I  along? 

ROLFE.  In  truth,  brave  Irishman, 

We  cannot  have  a  better.    Pretty  Alice, 
Will  you  again  lose  Walter  for  a  time? 

ALICE.  I  would  I  were  a  man,  sir,  then,  most  willingly  I'd  lose 
myself  to  do  our  captain  service. 

ROLFE.   An  Amazon ! 

WALTER.  Oh,  'tis  a  valiant  dove. 

LARRY.    But  come;   Heaven  and  St.  Patrick  prosper  us. 

[Exeunt  WALTER,  LARRY,  ALICE. 

ROLFE.   Now,  my  sad  friend,  cannot  e'en  this  arouse  you? 
Still  bending  with  the  weight  of  shoulder'd  Cupid? 
Fie !  throw  away  that  bauble,  love,  my  friend : 
That  glist'ning  toy  of  listless  laziness, 
Fit  only  for  green  girls  and  growing  boys 
T'  amuse  themselves  withal.    Can  an  inconstant, 
A  fickle  changeling,  move  a  man  like  Percy? 

PERCY.  Cold  youth,  how  can  you  speak  of  that  you  feel  not? 
You  never  lov'd. 


The  Indian  Princess  591 

ROLFE.  Hum!  yes,  in  mine  own  way; 

Marry,  'twas  not  with  sighs  and  folded  arms; 
For  mirth  I  sought  in  it,  not  misery. 
Sir,  I  have  ambled  through  all  love's  gradations 
Most  jollily,  and  seriously  the  whilst. 
I  have  sworn  oaths  of  love  on  my  knee,  yet  laugh 'd  not; 
Complaints  and  chidings  heard,  but  heeded  not; 
Kiss'd  the  cheek  clear  from  tear-drops,  and  yet  wept  not; 
Listen'd  to  vows  of  truth,  which  I  believed  not; 
And  after  have  been  jilted — 

PERCY.  Well! 

ROLFE.  And  car'd  not. 

PERCY.   Call  you  this  loving? 

ROLFE.  Aye,  and  wisely  loving. 

Not,  sir,  to  have  the  current  of  one's  blood 
Froz'n  with  a  frown,  and  molten  with  a  smile; 
Make  ebb  and  flood  under  a  lady  Luna, 
Liker  the  moon  in  changing  than  in  chasteness. 
'Tis  not  to  be  a  courier,  posting  up 
To  the  seventh  heav'n,  or  down  to  the  gloomy  centre, 
On  the  fool's  errand  of  a  wanton — pshaw! 
Women !  they're  made  of  whimsies  and  caprice,       I 
So  variant  and  so  wild,  that,  ty'd  to  a  God,  I 

They'd  dally  with  the  devil  for  a  change. —  I 

Rather  than  wed  a  European  dame, 
I'd  take  a  squaw  o'  the  woods,  and  get  papooses. 

PERCY.    If  Cupid  burn  thee  not  for  heresy, 
Love  is  no  longer  catholic  religion. 

ROLFE.   An'  if  he  do,  I'll  die  a  sturdy  martyr. 
And  to  the  last  preach  to  thee,  pagan  Percy, 
Till  I  have  made  a  convert.    Answer  me, 
Is  not  this  idol  of  thy  heathen  worship 
That  sent  thee  hither  a  despairing  pilgrim ; 
Thy  goddess,  Geraldine,  is  she  not  false? 

PERCY.   Most  false! 

ROLFE.  For  shame,  then ;  cease  adoring  her; 

Untwine  the  twisted  cable  of  your  arms, 
Heave  from  your  freighted  bosom  all  its  charge, 
In  one  full  sigh,  and  puff  it  strongly  from  you; 
Then,  raising  your  earth-reading  eyes  to  Heaven, 


592  Representative  Plays 

Laud  your  kind  stars  you  were  not  married  to  her, 
And  so  forget  her. 

PERCY.   Ah !  my  worthy  Rolfe, 
'Tis  not  the  hand  of  infant  Resolution 
Can  pluck  this  rooted  passion  from  my  heart: 
Yet  what  I  can  I  will ;  by  heaven !  I  will. 

ROLFE.   Why,  cheerly  said ;  the  baby  Resolution 
Will  grow  apace;  time  will  work  wonders  in  him. 

PERCY.    Did  she  not,  after  interchange  of  vows — 
But  let  the  false  one  go,  I  will  forget  her. 
Your  hand,  my  friend ;  now  will  I  act  the  man. 

ROLFE.  Faith,  I  have  seen  thee  do  't,  and  burn'd  with  shame, 
That  he  who  so  could  fight  should  ever  sigh. 

PERCY.   Think'st  thou  our  captain  lives? 

ROLFE.  Tush!  he  must  live; 

He  was  not  born  to  perish  so.    Believe  't, 
He'll  hold  these  dingy  devils  at  the  bay, 
Till  we  come  up  and  succour  him. 

PERCY.  And  yet 

A  single  arm  against  a  host — alas! 
I  fear  me  he  has  fallen. 

ROLFE.       *  Then  never  fell 

A  nobler  soul,  more  valiant,  or  more  worthy, 
Or  fit  to  govern  men.     If  he  be  gone, 
Heaven  save  our  tottering  colony  from  falling! 
But  see,  th'  adventurers  from  their  daily  toil. 

Enter  adventurers,  WALTER,  LARRY,  ROBIN,  ALICE,  &c. 

WALTER.  Now,  gentlemen  labourers,  a  lusty  roundelay  after 
the  toils  of  the  day;  and  then  to  a  sound  sleep,  in  houses  of  our 
own  building. 

Roundelay  Chorus. 

Now  crimson  sinks  the  setting  sun, 
And  our  tasks  are  fairly  done. 
Jolly  comrades,  home  to  bed, 
Taste  the  sweets  by  labour  shed; 
Let  his  poppy  seal  your  eyes, 
Till  another  day  arise, 
For  our  tasks  are  fairly  done, 
As  crimson  sinks  the  setting  sun. 


The  Indian  Princess  593 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.  Inside  the  palace  at  Werocomoco.  POWHATAN  in  state, 
GRIMOSCO,  &c.,  his  wives,  and  warriors,  ranged  on  each  side. 
Music. 

POWHATAN.  My  people,  strange  beings  have  appeared  among 
us;  they  come  from  the  bosom  of  the  waters,  amid  fire  and 
thunder;  one  of  them  has  our  war-god  delivered  into  our  hands: 
behold  the  white  being! 

Music.  SMITH  is  brought  in;  his  appearance  excites  universal 
wonder;  POCAHONTAS  expresses  peculiar  admiration. 

POCAHONTAS.   O  Nima !  is  it  not  a  God ! 

POWHATAN.  Miami,  though  thy  years  are  few,  thou  art  ex 
perienced  as  age;  give  us  thy  voice  of  counsel. 

MIAMI.  Brothers,  this  stranger  is  of  a  fearful  race  of  beings; 
their  barren  hunting  grounds  lie  beneath  the  world,  and  they 
have  risen,  in  monstrous  canoes,  through  the  great  water,  to 
spoil  and  ravish  from  us  our  fruitful  inheritance.  Brothers,  this 
stranger  must  die;  six  of  our  brethren  have  fall'n  by  his  hand. 
Before  we  lay  their  bones  in  the  narrow  house,  we  must  avenge 
them:  their  unappeased  spirits  will  not  go  to  rest  beyond  the 
mountains;  they  cry  out  for  the  stranger's  blood. 

N  ANT  AQUAS.  Warriors,  listen  to  my  words;  listen,  my  father, 
while  your  son  tells  the  deeds  of  the  brave  white  man.  I  saw 
him  when  300  of  our  fiercest  chiefs  formed  the  warring  around 
him.  But  he  defied  their  arms;  he  held  lightning  in  his  hand. 
Wherever  his  arm  fell,  there  sunk  a  warrior:  as  the  tall  tree  falls, 
blasted  and  riven,  to  the  earth,  when  the  angry  Spirit  darts  his 
fires  through  the  forest.  I  thought  him  a  God ;  my  feet  grew  to 
the  ground;  I  could  not  move! 

POCAHONTAS.   Nima,  dost  thou  hear  the  words  of  my  brother. 

NANTAQUAS.  The  battle  ceased,  for  courage  left  the  bosom 
of  our  warriors;  their  arrows  rested  in  their  quivers;  their  bow 
strings  no  longer  sounded;  the  tired  chieftains  leaned  on  their 
war-clubs,  and  gazed  at  the  terrible  stranger,  whom  they  dared 
not  approach.  Give  an  ear  to  me,  king:  't  was  then  I  held  out 
the  hand  of  peace  to  him,  and  he  became  my  brother;  he  forgot 
his  arms,  for  he  trusted  to  his  brother;  he  was  discoursing  won 
ders  to  his  friend,  when  our  chiefs  rushed  upon  him,  and  bore  him 
away.  But  oh!  my  father,  he  must  not  die;  for  he  is  not  a  war 


594  Representative  Plays 

captive;  I  promised  that  the  chain  of  friendship  should  be  bright 
between  us.  Chieftains,  your  prince  must  not  falsify  his  word; 
father,  your  son  must  not  be  a  liar! 

POCAHONTAS.  Listen,  warriors;  listen,  father;  the  white  man 
is  my  brother's  brother! 

GRIMOSCO.  King!  when  last  night  our  village  shook  with  the 
loud  noise,  it  was  the  Great  Spirit  who  talk'd  to  his  priest;  my 
mouth  shall  speak  his  commands:  King,  we  must  destroy  the 
strangers,  for  they  are  not  our  God's  children;  we  must  take 
their  scalps,  and  wash  our  hands  in  the  white  man's  blood,  for 
he  is  an  enemy  to  the  Great  Spirit. 

NANT AQUAS.  O  priest,  thou  hast  dreamed  a  false  dream; 
Miami,  thou  tellest  the  tale  that  is  not.  Hearken,  my  father,  to 
my  true  words!  the  white  man  is  beloved  by  the  Great  Spirit; 
his  king  is  like  you,  my  father,  good  and  great;  and  he  comes 
from  a  land  beyond  the  wide  water,  to  make  us  wise  and  happy ! 

POWHATAN  deliberates.   Music. 

POWHATAN.  Stranger,  thou  must  prepare  for  death.  Six  of 
our  brethren  fell  by  thy  hand.  Thou  must  die. 

POCAHONTAS.   Father,  O  father! 

SMITH.   Had  not  your  people  first  beset  me,  king, 
I  would  have  prov'd  a  friend  and  brother  to  them; 
Arts  I'd  have  taught,  that  should  have  made  them  gods, 
And  gifts  would  I  have  given  to  your  people, 
Richer  than  red  men  ever  yet  beheld. 
Think  not  I  fear  to  die.    Lead  to  the  block. 
The  soul  of  the  white  warrior  shall  shrink  not. 
Prepare  the  stake !  amidst  your  fiercest  tortures, 
You'll  find  its  fiery  pains  as  nobly  scorned, 
As  when  the  red  man  sings  aloud  his  death-song. 

POCAHONTAS.   Oh!  shall  that  brave  man  die! 

Music.  The  KING  motions  with  his  hand,  and  SMITH  is  led  to  the 

block. 

MIAMI.  [To  executioners.]  Warriors,  when  the  third  signal 
strikes,  sink  your  tomahawks  in  his  head. 

POCAHONTAS.  Oh,  do  not,  warriors,  do  not!  Father,  incline 
your  heart  to  mercy;  he  will  win  your  battles,  he  will  vanquish 
your  enemies!  [First  signal.}  Brother,  speak!  save  your  brother! 
Warriors,  are  you  brave?  preserve  the  brave  man !  [Second  signal. } 


The  Indian  Princess  595 

Miami,   priest,  sing  the  song  of  peace;    ah!  strike  not,  hold! 


mercy  ! 


The  third  signal  is  struck,  the  hatchets  are  lifted  up:  when 
the  PRINCESS,  shrieking,  runs  distractedly  to  the  block,  and 
presses  SMITH'S  head  to  her  bosom. 

White  man,  thou  shalt  not  die;   or  I  will  die  with  thee! 

Music.   She  leads  SMITH  to  the  throne,  and  kneels. 

My  father,  dost  thou  love  thy  daughter?  listen  to  her  voice; 
look  upon  her  tears:  they  ask  for  mercy  to  the  captive.  Is  thy 
child  dear  to  thee,  my  father?  Thy  child  will  die  with  the  white 
man. 

Plaintive  music.  She  bows  her  head  to  his  feet.  POWHATAN, 
after  some  deliberation,  looking  on  his  daughter  with  tenderness, 
presents  her  with  a  string  of  white  wampum.  POCAHONTAS, 
with  the  wildest  expression  of  joy,  rushes  forward  with  SMITH, 
presenting  the  beads  of  peace. 

Captive  !  thou  art  free  !  — 

Music.  General  joy  is  diffused  —  MIAMI  and  GRIMOSCO  only 
appear  discontented.  The  prince  NANTAQUAS  congratulates 
SMITH.  The  PRINCESS  shows  the  most  extravagant  emotions 
of  rapture. 

SMITH.   O  woman  !  angel  sex  !  where'er  thou  art, 
Still  art  thou  heavenly.    The  rudest  clime 
Robs  not  thy  glowing  bosom  of  its  nature. 
Thrice  blessed  lady,  take  a  captive's  thanks  ! 

[He  bows  upon  her  hand. 

POCAHONTAS.   My  brother  !  — 

[Music.   SMITH  expresses  his  gratitude. 

NANTAQUAS.  Father,  hear  the  design  that  fills  my  breast. 
I  will  go  among  the  white  men;  I  will  learn  their  arts;  and  my 
people  shall  be  made  wise  and  happy. 

POCAHONTAS.    I  too  will  accompany  my  brother. 

MIAMI.   Princess!  — 

POCAHONTAS.  Away,  cruel  Miami;  you  would  have  murdered 
my  brother!  — 


596  Representative  Plays 

POWHATAN.  Go,  my  son;  take  thy  warriors,  and  go  with 
the  white  men.  Daughter,  I  cannot  lose  thee  from  mine  eyes; 
accompany  thy  brother  but  a  little  on  his  way.  Stranger,  depart 
in  peace;  I  entrust  my  son  to  thy  friendship. 

SMITH.   Gracious  sir, 

He  shall  return  with  honours  and  with  wonders; 
My  beauteous  sister!  noble  brother,  come! 

Music.  Exeunt,  on  one  side,  SMITH,  PRINCESS,  NANTAQUAS, 
NIMA,  and  train.  On  the  other,  KING,  PRIEST,  MIAMI,  &c.  The 
two  latter  express  angry  discontent. 


SCENE  II.   A  forest. 

Enter  PERCY,  ROLFE. 

ROLFE.   So  far  indeed  'tis  fruitless,  yet  we'll  on. 

PERCY.   Aye,  to  the  death. 

ROLFE.  Brave  Percy,  come,  confess 

You  have  forgot  your  love. 

PERCY.  Why,  faith,  not  quite; 

Despite  of  me,  it  sometimes  through  my  mind 
Flits  like  a  dark  cloud  o'er  a  summer  sky; 
But  passes  off  like  that,  and  leaves  me  cloudless. 
I  can't  forget  that  she  was  sweet  as  spring; 
Fair  as  the  day. 

ROLFE.  Aye,  aye,  like  April  weather; 

Sweet,  fair,  and  faithless. 

PERCY.  True  alas!  like  April! 

Song — PERCY. 

Fair  Geraldine  each  charm  of  spring  possest, 
Her  cheek  glow'd  with  the  rose  and  lily's  strife; 

Her  breath  was  perfume,  and  each  winter'd  breast 
Felt  that  her  sunny  eyes  beam'd  light  and  life. 

Alas!  that  in  a  form  of  blooming  May, 

The  mind  should  April's  changeful  liv'ry  wear! 

Yet  ah!  like  April,  smiling  to  betray, 
Is  Geraldine,  as  false  as  she  is  fair! 


The  Indian  Princess  597 

ROLFE.    Beshrew  the  little  gipsy!  let  us  on. 

[Exeunt  PERCY,  ROLFE. 

Enter  LARRY,  WALTER,  ROBIN,  &c. 

LARRY.   Go  no  further?  Och!  you  hen-hearted  cock  robin! 

ROBIN.    But,  master  Larry — 

WALTER.  Prithee,  thou  evergreen  aspen  leaf,  thou  non- 
intermittent  ague!  why  didst  along  with  us? 

ROBIN.  Why,  you  know,  my  master  Rolfe  desired  it;  and 
then  you  were  always  railing  out  on  me  for  chicken-heartedness. 
I  came  to  shew  ye  I  had  valour. 

WALTER.  But  forgetting  to  bring  it  with  thee,  thou  wouldst 
now  back  for  it;  well,  in  the  name  of  Mars,  go;  return  for  thy 
valour,  Robin. 

ROBIN.   What!  alone? 

LARRY.  Arrah!  then  stay  here  till  it  comes  to  you,  and  then 
follow  us. 

ROBIN.  Stay  here!  O  Lord,  methinks  I  feel  an  arrow  sticking 
in  my  gizzard  already !  Hark  ye,  my  sweet  master,  let  us  sing. 

LARRY.   Sing? 

ROBIN.  Sing;  I'm  always  valiant  when  I  sing.  Beseech  you, 
let  us  chaunt  the  glee  that  I  dish'd  up  for  us  three. 

LARRY.    It  has  a  spice  of  your  cowardly  cookery  in  it. 

WALTER.    But  since  'tis  a  provocative  to  Robin's  valour — 

LARRY.   Go  to:  give  a  lusty  hem,  and  fall  on. 

Glee. 

We  three,  adventurers  be, 
Just  come  from  our  own  country; 
We  have  cross'd  thrice  a  thousand  ma, 
Without  a  penny  of  money. 

We  three,  good  fellows  be, 

Who  wou'd  run  like  the  devil  from  Indians  three; 

We  never  admir'd  their  bowmandry; 

Oh,  give  us  whole  skins  for  our  money. 

We  three,  merry  men  be, 
Who  gaily  will  chaunt  our  ancient  glee, 
Though  a  lass  or  a  glass,  in  this  wild  country, 
Can't  be  had,  or  for  love,  or  for  money. 


598  Representative  Plays 

LARRY.  Well,  how  do  you  feel? 

ROBIN.   As  courageous  as,  as  a — 

LARRY.  As  a  wren,  little  Robin.  Are  you  sure,  now,  you 
won't  be  after  fancying  every  deer  that  skips  by  you  a  divil, 
and  every  bush  a  bear? 

ROBIN.  I  defy  the  devil;  but  hav'n't  you  heard,  my  masters, 
how  the  savages  go  a  hunting,  drest  out  in  deer-skin?  How 
could  you  put  one  in  mind,  master  Larry?  O  Lord !  that  I  should 
come  a  captain-hunting!  the  only  game  we  put  up  is  deer  that 
carry  scalping  knives!  or  if  we  beat  the  bush  to  start  a  bold 
commander,  up  bolts  a  bloody  bear! 

[WALTER  and  LARRY  exchange  significant  nods. 

LARRY.  To  be  sure  we're  in  a  parlous  case.  The  forest  laws 
are  dev'lish  severe  here:  an  they  catch  us  trespassing  upon  their 
hunting  ground,  we  shall  pay  a  neat  poll-tax:  nothing  less  than 
our  heads  will  serve. 

ROBIN.   Our  heads? 

WALTER.   Yes,  faith !  they'll  soon  collect  their  capitation. 
They  wear  men's  heads,  sir,  hanging  at  the  breast, 
Instead  of  jewels;  and  at  either  ear, 
Most  commonly,  a  child's,  by  way  of  ear-drop. 

ROBIN.   Oh!  curse  their  finery!  jewels,  heads,  O  Lord! 

LARRY.    Pshaw  man!  don't  fear.    Perhaps  they'll  only  burn  us. 
What  a  delicate  roasted  Robin  you  wou'd  make! 
Troth!  they'd  so  lick  their  lips! 

ROBIN.  A  roasted  robin! — 

WALTER.   Tut!  if  they  only  burn  us,  'twill  be  brave. 
Robin  shall  make  our  death-songs. 

ROBIN.  Death-songs,  oh! 

[ROBIN  stands  motionless  with  fear. 

LARRY.    By  the  good  looking  right  eye  of  Saint  Patrick, 
There's  Rolfe  and  Percy,  with  a  tribe  of  Indians.      [Looking  out. 

ROBIN.    Indians!  they're  pris'ners,  and  we — we're  dead  men! 

[While  WALTER  and  LARRY  exeunt,  ROBIN  gets  up  into  a  tree.] 

O  Walter,  Larry!  ha!  what  gone,  all  gone! 
Poor  Robin,  what  is  to  become  of  thee? 


The  Indian  Princess  599 

Enter  SMITH,  POCAHONTAS,  NANTAQUAS,  PERCY,  ROLFE,  NIMA 
and  INDIANS,  LARRY  and  WALTER. 

SMITH.   At  hazard  of  her  own  dear  life  she  saved  me. 
E'en  the  warm  friendship  of  the  prince  had  fail'd, 
And  death,  inevitable  death,  hung  over  me. 
Oh,  had  you  seen  her  fly,  like  Pity's  herald, 
To  stay  the  uplifted  hatchet  in  its  flight; 
Or  heard  her,  as  with  cherub  voice  she  pled, 
Like  Heav'n's  own  angel-advocate,  for  mercy. 

POCAHONTAS.    My  brother,  speak  not  so.  [Bashfully. 

ROLFE.  What  gentleness! 

What  sweet  simplicity!  what  angel  softness! 

ROLFE  goes  to  her.  She,  timidly,  but  with  evident  pleasure,  receives 
his  attentions.  During,  this  scene  the  PRINCESS  discovers~ihe 
first  advances  of  love  in  a  heart  of  perfect  simplicity.  SMITH,  &c., 
converse  apart. 

ROBIN.  [In  the  tree.]  Egad!  there's  never  a  head  hanging  to 
their  ears;  and  their  ears  hang  to  their  heads,  for  all  the  world 
as  if  they  were  Christians;  I'll  venture  down  among  them. 

[Getting  down. 

NIMA.   Ah!  [Bends  her  bow,  and  is  about  to  shoot  at  him. 

LARRY.  Arrah!  my  little  dark  Diana,  choose  noble  game, 
that's  only  little  Robin. 

ROBIN.   Aye,  bless  you,  I'm  only  little  Robin.      [Jumps  down. 

NIMA  examines  him  curiously,  but  fearfully. 

ROBIN.  Gad,  she's  taken  with  my  figure;  ah!  there  it  is  now; 
a  personable  fellow  shall  have  his  wench  any  where.  Yes,  she's 
admiring  my  figure.  Well,  my  dusky  dear,  how  could  you  like 
such  a  man  as  I  am? 

NIMA.   Are  you  a  man? 

ROBIN.    I'll  convince  you  of  it  some  day.    Hark  ye,  my  dear. 

[Attempts  to  whisper. 

NIMA.   Ah!  don't  bite. 

ROBIN.    Bite!  what  do  you  take  me  for? 

NIMA.   A  racoon. 

ROBIN.   A  racoon!    Why  so? 

NIMA.   You  run  up  the  tree.  [Motions  as  if  climbing. 

LARRY.   Well  said,  my  little  pagan  Pythagoras! — 
Ha!  ha! 


6oo  Representative  Plays 

ROBIN.    Hum!  [Retires  disconcerted. 

ROLFE  and  PERCY  come  forward. 

ROLFE.   Tell  me,  in  sooth,  didst  ever  mark  such  sweetness! 
Such  winning — such  bewitching  gentleness! 

PERCY.   What,  caught,  my  flighty  friend,  love-lim'd  at  last? 
O  Cupid,  Cupid!  thou'rt  a  skilful  birder. 
Although  thou  spread  thy  net,  i'  the  wilderness, 
Or  shoot  thy  bird-bolt  from  an  Indian  bow, 
Or  place  thy  light  in  savage  ladies'  eyes, 
Or  pipe  thy  call  in  savage  ladies'  voices, 
Alas!  each  tow'ring  tenant  of  the  air 
Must  fall  heart  pierc'd — or  stoop,  at  thy  command, 
To  sigh  his  sad  notes  in  thy  cage,  O  Cupid ! 

ROLFE.   A  truce;  a  truce!  O  friend,  her  guiltless  breast 
Seems  Love's  pavilion,  where,  in  gentle  sleep, 
The  unrous'd  boy  has  rested.    O  my  Percy! 
Could  I  but  wake  the  slumb'rer — 

PERCY.  Nay,  i'  faith, 

Take  courage;   thou  hast  given  the  alarm: 
Methinks  the  drowsy  god  gets  up  apace. 

ROLFE.   Say'st  thou? 

SMITH.  Come,  gentlemen,  we'll  toward  the  town. 

NANTAQUAS.    My  sister,  you  will  now  return  to  our  father. 

PRINCESS.    Return,  my  brother? 

NANTAQUAS.  Our  father  lives  but  while  you  are  near  him. 
Go,  my  sister,  make  him  happy  with  the  knowledge  of  his 
son's  happiness.  Farewell,  my  sister! 

[The  PRINCESS  appears  dejected. 

SMITH.   Once  more,  my  guardian  angel,  let  me  thank  thee. 

[Kissing  her  hand. 

Ere  long  we  will  return  to  thee,  with  presents 
Well  worth  a  princess'  and  a  king's  acceptance. 
Meantime,  dear  lady,  tell  the  good  Powhatan 
We'll  show  the  prince  such  grace  and  entertainment, 
As  shall  befit  our  brother  and  his  son. 
Adieu,  sweet  sister. 

Music.     They  take  leave  of  the  PRINCESS;    she  remains  silently 
dejected;   her  eyes  anxiously  follow  ROLFE,  who  lingers  behind, 
and  is  the  last  to  take  leave. 
PRINCESS.   Stranger,  wilt  thou  too  come  to  Werocomoco? 


The  Indian  Princess  60 1 

ROLFE.    Dost  thou  wish  it,  lady? 

PRINCESS.    [Eagerly.]    O  yes! 

ROLFE.   And  why,  lovely  lady? 

PRINCESS.  My  eyes  are  pleased  to  see  thee,  and  my  ears  to 
hear  thee,  stranger. 

ROLFE.  And  did  not  the  others  who  were  here  also  please  thy 
sight  and  hearing? 

PRINCESS.  Oh!  they  were  all  goodly;  but — their  eyes  looked 
not  like  thine;  their  voices  sounded  not  like  thine;  and  their 
speeches  were  not  like  thy  speeches,  stranger. 

ROLFE.  Enchanting  simplicity!  But  why  call  me  stranger? 
Captain  Smith  thou  callest  brother.  Call  me  so  too. 

PRINCESS.  Ah,  no! 

ROLFE.  Then  thou  thinkest  not  of  me  as  thou  dost  of  him? 
[She  shakes  her  head  and  sighs.]  Is  Captain  Smith  dear  to  thee? 

PRINCESS.  Oh  yes!  very  dear;  [ROLFE  is  uneasy.]  and  Nanta- 
quas  too:  they  are  my  brothers; — but — that  name  is  not  thine — 
thou  art — 

ROLFE.   What,  lovely  lady? 

PRINCESS.  I  know  not;  I  feel  the  name  thou  art,  but  I  cannot 
speak  it. 

ROLFE.    I  am  thy  lover,  dear  princess. 

PRINCESS.    Yes,  thou  art  my  lover.    But  why  call  me  princess? 

ROLFE.    Dear  lady,  thou  art  a  king's  daughter. 

PRINCESS.   And  if  I  were  not,  what  wouldst  thou  call  me? 

ROLFE.   Oh !  if  thou  wert  a  beggar's,  I  would  call  thee  love ! 

PRINCESS.  I  know  not  what  a  beggar  is;  but  oh!  I  would  I 
were  a  beggar's  daughter,'  so  thou  wouldst  call  me  love.  Ah ! 
do  not  longer  call  me  king's  daughter.  If  thou  feelest  the 
name  as  I  do,  call  me  as  I  call  thee:  thou  shalt  be  my  lover;  I 
will  be  thy  lover. 

ROLFE.    Enchanting,  lovely  creature !        [Kisses  her  ardently. 

PRINCESS.  Lover,  thou  hast  made  my  cheek  to  burn,  and  ftiy 
heart  to  beat!  Mark  it. 

ROLFE.    Dear  innocence !  [Putting  his  hand  to  her  heart. 

PRINCESS.  Lover,  why  is  it  so?  To-day  before  my  heart  beat, 
and  mine  eyes  were  full  of  tears;  but  then  my  white  brother  was 
in  danger.  Thou  art  not  in  danger,  and  yet  behold — [Wipes  a 
tear  from  her  eye.}  Besides,  then,  my  heart  hurt  me,  but  now! 
Oh,  now! — Lover,  why  is  it  so? 

[Leaning  on  him  with  innocent  confidence. 


602  Representative  Plays 

ROLFE.  Angel  of  purity!  thou  didst  to-day  feel  pity ;  and  now 
— Oh,  rapturous  task  to  teach  thee  the  difference! — now,  thou 
dost  feel  love. 

PRINCESS.  Love! 

ROLFE.  Love:  the  noblest,  the  sweetest  passion  that  could 
swell  thy  angel  bosom. 

PRINCESS.  Oh!  I  feel  that  'tis  very  sweet.  Lover,  with  thy  lips 
thou  didst  make  me  feel  it.  My  lips  shall  teach  thee  sweet  love. 
[Kisses  him,  and  artlessly  looks  up  in  his  face;  placing  her  .hand 
upon  his  heart.  ]  Does  thy  heart  beat? 

ROLFE.   Beat!  O  heaven! — 

[ROBIN,  who  had  been  with  NIMA,  comes  forward. 

ROBIN.  Gad!  we  must  end  our  amours,  or  we  shall  be  left. 
Sir,  my  master,  hadn't  we  better — 

ROLFE.   Booby!  idiot! 

Enter  WALTER. 

WALTER.   Sir,  lieutenant,  the  captain  awaits  your  coming  up. 

ROLFE.    I'll  follow  on  the  instant. 

PRINCESS.   Thou  wilt  not  go? 

ROLFE.    But  for  a  time,  love. 

PRINCESS.    I  do  not  wish  thee  to  leave  me. 

ROLFE.    I  must,  love;   but  I  will  return. 

PRINCESS.   Soon — very  soon? 

ROLFE.   Very — very  soon. 

PRINCESS.  I  am  not  pleased  now — and  yet  my  heart  beats. 
Oh,  lover! 

ROLFE.  My  angel!  there  shall  not  a  sun  rise  and  set,  ere  I 
am  with  thee.  Adieu !  thy  own  heavenly  innocence  be  thy  safe 
guard.  Farewell,  sweet  love! 

Music.   He  embraces  her  and  exit,  followed  by  ROBIN  and  WALTER. 
PRINCESS  looks  after  him.   A  pause. 

PRINCESS.  O  Nima! 

NIMA.  Princess,  white  men  are  pow-wows.  The  white  man 
put  his  lips  here,  and  I  felt  something — here — 

[Putting  her  hand  to  her  heart. 
PRINCESS.   O  lover! 


The  Indian  Princess  603 

She  runs  to  the  place  whence  ROLFE  went  out,  and  gazes  after  him. 
Music.   Enter  from  opposite  side,  MIAMI. 

MIAMI.    [Sternly.]   Princess! 

PRINCESS.    [Turning.]  Ah! 

MIAMI.  Miami  has  followed  thy  steps.  Thou  art  the  friend 
of  the  white  men. 

PRINCESS.   Yes,  for  they  are  good  and  godlike. 

MIAMI.  Mine  eyes  beheld  the  pale  youth  part  from  you; 
your  arms  were  entwined,  your  lips  were  together! 

[Struggling  with  jealousy. 

PRINCESS.   He  is  my  lover;  I  am  his  lover. 

[Still  looking  after  ROLFE. 

MIAMI.  [Stamps  with  anger.]  Hear  me!  In  what  do  the  red 
yield  to  the  white  men?  and  who  among  the  red  men  is  like 
Miami?  While  I  was  yet  a  child,  did  the  dart  which  my  breath 
blew  through  my  sarbacan  ever  fail  to  pierce  the  eye  of  the  bird? 
What  youth  dared,  like  Miami,  to  leap  from  the  precipice,  and 
drag  the  struggling  bear  from  the  foaming  torrent?  Is  there  a 
hunter — is  there  a  warrior — skilful  and  brave  as  Miami?  Come 
to  my  cabin,  and  see  the  scalps  and  the  skins  that  adorn  it.  They 
are  the  trophies  of  the  Susquehannock! 

PRINCESS.  Man,  mine  eyes  will  never  behold  thy  trophies. 
They  are  not  pleased  to  look  on  thee. 

[Averting  her  eyes  with  disgust. 

MIAMI.  Ha!  [Pause — he  resumes  in  a  softened  tone.]  Princess, 
I  have  crossed  many  woods  and  waters,  that  I  might  bear  the 
daughter  of  Powhatan  to  my  nation.  Shall  my  people  cry 
out,  with  scorn,  "behold!  our  prince  returns  without  his  bride?" 
In  what  is  the  pale  youth  above  the  red  Miami? 

PRINCESS.  Thine  eyes  are  as  the  panther's;  thy  voice  like  the 
voice  of  the  wolf.  Thou  shouldst  make  my  heart  beat  with  joy; 
and  I  tremble  before  thee.  Oh  no !  Powhatan  shall  give  me  to  my 
lover.  I  will  be  my  lover's  bride! 

Music.  MIAMI  stamps  furiously;  his  actions  betray  the  most 
savage  rage  of  jealousy;  he  rushes  to  seize  the  PRINCESS,  but, 
recollecting  that  her  attendants  are  by,  he  goes  out  in  an  agony, 
by  his  gestures  menacing  revenge.  The  PRINCESS  exit  on  the 
opposite  side,  followed  by  train. 


604  Representative  Plays 

SCENE  III.    Werocomoco. 

Music.     Enter  from  the  palace  POWHATAN  and  GRIMOSCO;    met 
by  the  PRINCESS,  who  runs  to  her  father. 

POWHATAN.   My  daughter! 

PRINCESS.   O  father!  the  furious  Miami! 

POWHATAN.   What  of  the  prince? 

PRINCESS.  Father,  my  father!  do  not  let  the  fierce  prince  bear 
me  to  his  cruel  nation! 

POWHATAN.   How! 

PRINCESS.  By  the  spirit  of  my  mother,  I  implore  my  father. 
Oh!  if  thou  deliver  me  to  the  Susquehannock,  think  not  thine 
eyes  shall  ever  again  behold  me ;  the  first  kind  stream  that  crosses 
our  path  shall  be  the  end  of  my  journey;  my  soul  shall  seek  the 
soul  of  the  mother  that  loved  me,  far  beyond  the  mountains. 

POWHATAN.    Daughter,  mention  not  thy  mother! 

PRINCESS.  Her  shade  will  pity  her  unhappy  child,  and  I 
shall  be  at  rest  in  her  bosom.  [Weeping. 

POWHATAN.  Rest  in  my  bosom,  my  child!  [She  starts  with 
joyful  emotion.  ]  Thou  shalt  not  go  from  thy  father. 

PRINCESS.    Father;  dear  father!  [Seizing  his  hand. 

Music.   An  INDIAN  enters,  bearing  a  red  hatchet. 

INDIAN.   King! 

POWHATAN.  Thou  art  of  the  train  of  the  Susquehannock: 
speak. 

INDIAN.    My  prince  demands  his  bride. 

[The  PRINCESS  clings  fearfully  to  the  KING. 

POWHATAN.  Tell  thy  prince,  my  daughter  will  not  leave  her 
father. 

INDIAN.   Will  Powhatan  forget  his  promise  to  Miami? 

POWHATAN.  Powhatan  will  not  forget  his  promise  to  her 
mother;  and  he  vowed,  while  the  angel  of  death  hovered  over 
her,  that  the  eye  of  tender  care  should  never  be  averted  from  her 
darling  daughter. 

INDIAN.   Shall  not  then  my  prince  receive  his  bride? 

POWHATAN.   The  daughter  of  Powhatan — never. 

INDIAN.   Take  then  his  defiance. 

[Music.   He  presents  the  red  hatchet. 


The  Indian  Princess  605 

POWHATAN.  The  red  hatchet!  Tis  well.  Grimosco,  summon 
our  warriors. 

GRIMOSCO.   0  king!  might  I— 

POWHATAN.  Speak  not.  Tell  our  chiefs  to  assemble;  and 
show  them  the  war-signal  [Exit  GRIMOSCO.].  Go,  tell  your  master, 
the  great  Powhatan  will  soon  meet  him,  terrible  as  the  minister 
of  vengeance.  [Exit  INDIAN.  ]  The  chiefs  approach.  My  child, 
retire  from  this  war  scene. 

PRINCESS.  O  dear  parent!  thine  age  should  have  been  passed 
in  the  shade  of  peace;  and  do  I  bring  my  father  to  the  bloody 
war-path? 

POWHATAN.  Not  so;  the  young  prince  has  often  dared  my 
power,  and  merited  my  vengeance;  he  shall  now  feel  both. 

PRINCESS.   Alas!  his  nation  is  numerous  and  warlike. 

POWHATAN.  Fear  not,  my  child;  we  will  call  the  valiant 
Nantaquas  from  his  brothers;  the  brave  English  too  will  join  us. 

PRINCESS.   Ah !   then  is  thy  safety  and  success  certain. 

[Exit  into  palace,  followed  by  NIMA,  &c. 

Music.   Enter  GRIMOSCO  and  WARRIORS. 

POWHATAN.  Brave  chieftains !  need  I  remind  you  of  the  vic 
tories  you  have  gained;  the  scalps  you  have  borne  from  your 
enemies?  Chieftains,  another  victory  must  be  won;  more 
trophies  from  your  foes  must  deck  your  cabins;  the  insolent 
Miami  has  braved  your  king,  and  defied  him  with  the  crimson 
tomahawk.  Warriors!  we  will  not  bury  it  till  his  nation  is 
extinct.  Ere  we  tread  the  war-path,  raise  to  our  god  Aresqui  the 
song  of  battle,  then  march  to  triumph  and  to  glory. 


SONG  TO  ARESQUI. 

Aresqui!  Aresqui! 
Lo!  thy  sons  for  war  prepare! 
Snakes  adorn  each  painted  head, 
While  the  cheek  of  flaming  red 
Gives  the  eye  its  ghastly  glare. 

Aresqui!  Aresqui! 
Through  the  war-path  lead  aright, 
Lo!  we're  ready  for  the  fight. 


6o6  Representative  Plays 

War  Song. 

FIRST  INDIAN.    See  the  cautious  warrior  creeping! 
SECOND  INDIAN.     See  the  tree-hid  warrior  peeping! 
FIRST  INDIAN.  Mark!  Mark! 

Their  track  is  here;  now  breathless  go! 
SECOND  INDIAN.  Hark!  Hark! 

The  branches  rustle — 'tis  the  foe! 
CHORUS.  Now  we  bid  the  arrow  fly — 

Now  we  raise  the  hatchet  high. 

Where  is  urg'd  the  deadly  dart, 

There  is  pierced  a  chieftain's  heart; 

Where  the  war-club  swift  descends, 

A  hero's  race  of  glory  ends ! 
FIRST  INDIAN.        In  vain  the  warrior  flies — 

From  his  brow  the  scalp  we  tear. 
SECOND  INDIAN.    Or  home  the  captiv'd  prize, 

A  stake-devoted  victim,  bear. 
FIRST  AND  SECOND  INDIAN.     The  victors  advance — 

And  while  amidst  the  curling  blaze, 

Our  foe  his  death-song  tries  to  raise — 
Dance  the  warriors'  dance. 

[War-dance. 
GRAND  CHORUS.  Aresqui !  Aresqui ! 

Through  the  war-path  lead  aright — 

Lo!  we're  ready  for  the  fight. 

[March  to  battle. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.   Jamestown — built. 

WALTER  and  ALICE. 

WALTER.  One  mouthful  more.  [Kiss.  ]  Oh !  after  a  long  lent 
of  absence,  what  a  charming  relish  is  a  kiss,  served  from  the  lips 
of  a  pretty  wife,  to  a  hungry  husband. 

ALICE.  And,  believe  me,  I  banquet  at  the  high  festival  of 
return  with  equal  pleasure.  But  what  has  made  your  absence 
so  tedious,  prithee? 

WALTER.  Marry,  girl,  thus  it  was:  when  we  had  given  the 
enemies  of  our  ally,  Powhatan,  defeature,  and  sent  the  rough 


The  Indian  Princess  607 

Miami  in  chains  to  Werocomoco,  our  captain  dispatches  his 
lieutenant,  Rolfe,  to  supply  his  place,  here,  in  the  town;  and 
leading  us  to  the  water's  edge,  and  leaping  into  the  pinnace, 
away  went  we  on  a  voyage  of  discovery.  Some  thousand  miles 
we  sailed,  and  many  strange  nations  discovered;  and  for  our 
exploits,  if  posterity  reward  us  not,  there  is  no  faith  in  history. 

ALICE.   And  what  were  your  exploits? 

WALTER.  Rare  ones,  egad ! 

We  took  the  devil,  Okee,  prisoner. 

ALICE.   And  have  you  brought  him  hither? 

WALTER.  No:  his  vot'ries 

Redeem'd  him  with  some  score  or  two  of  deer-skins. 
Then  we've  made  thirty  kings  our  tributaries: 
Such  sturdy  rogues,  that  each  could  easily 
Fillip  a  buffalo  to  death  with  's  finger. 

ALICE.    But  have  you  got  their  treasures? 

WALTER.  .  All,  my  girl. 

Imperial  robes  of  raccoon,  crowns  of  feather; 
Besides  the  riches  of  their  sev'ral  kingdoms — 
A  full  boat  load  of  corn. 

ALICE.  Oh,  wonderful! 

WALTER.   Aye,  is  it  not?   But,  best  of  all,  I've  kiss'd 
The  little  finger  of  a  mighty  queen. 
Sweet  soul !  among  the  court'sies  of  her  court, 
She  gave  us  a  Virginian  mascarado. 

ALICE.    Dost  recollect  the  fashion  of  it? 

WALTER.  Oh! 

Were  I  to  live  till  Time  were  in  his  dotage, 
'Twould  never  from  mine  eyes.    Imagine  first, 
The  scene,  a  gloomy  wood;   the  time,  midnight; 
Her  squawship's  maids  of  honour  were  the  masquers; 
Their  masks  were  wolves'  heads  curiously  set  on, 
And,  bating  a  small  difference  of  hue, 
Their  dress  e'en  such  as  madam  Eve  had  on 
Or  ere  she  eat  the  apple. 

ALICE.  Pshaw ! 

WALTER.  These  dresses, 

All  o'er  perfum'd  with  the  self-same  pomado 
Which  our  fine  dames  at  home  buy  of  old  Bruin, 
Glisten'd  most  gorgeously  unto  the  moon. 
Thus,  each  a  firebrand  brandishing  aloft, 


608  Representative  Plays 

Rush'd  they  all  forth,  with  shouts  and  frantic  yells, 
In  dance  grotesque  and  diabolical, 
Madder  than  mad  Bacchantes. 

ALICE.  O  the  powers! 

WALTER.   When  they  had  finished  the  divertisement 
A  beauteous  Wolf-head  came  to  me — 

ALICE.  To  you? 

WALTER.   And  lit  me  with  her  pine-knot  torch  to  bedward, 
Where,  as  the  custom  of  the  court  it  was, 
The  beauteous  Wolf-head  blew  the  flambeau  out, 
And  then — 

ALICE.  Well! 

WALTER.        Then,  the  light  being  out,  you  know, 
To  all  that  follow'd  I  was  in  the  dark. 
Now  you  look  grave.    In  faith  I  went  to  sleep. 
Could  a  grim  wolf  rival  my  gentle  lamb? 
No,  truly,  girl :  though  in  this  wilderness 
The  trees  hang  full  of  divers  colour'd  fruit, 
From  orange- tawny  to  sloe-black,  egad, 
They'll  hang  until  they  rot  or  ere  I  pluck  them, 
While  I've  my  melting,  rosy  nonpareil.  [Kiss. 

ALICE.   Oh!  you're  a  Judas! 

WALTER.  Then  am  I  a  Jew! 

Enter  SMITH,  PERCY,  NANTAQUAS,  LARRY,  &c. 

SMITH.   Yet,  prince,  accept  at  least  my  ardent  thanks: 
A  thousand  times  told  over,  they  would  fail 
To  pay  what  you  and  your  dear  sister  claim. 
Through  my  long  absence  from  my  people  here, 
You  have  sustain'd  their  feebleness. 

NANTAQUAS.  O  brother, 

To  you,  the  conqueror  of  our  father's  foes; 
To  you,  the  sun  which  from  our  darken'd  minds 
Has  chas'd  the  clouds  of  error,  what  can  we 
Not  to  remain  your  debtors? 

SMITH.  Gen'rous  soul! 

Your  friendship  is  my  pride.    But  who  knows  aught 
Of  our  young  Rolfe? 

PERCY.  This  morning,  sir,  I  hear, 
An  hour  ere  our  arrival,  the  lieutenant 
Accompanied  the  princess  to  her  father's. 


The  Indian  Princess  609 

SMITH.    Methinks  our  laughing  friend  has  found  at  last 
The  power  of  sparkling  eyes.    What  say  you,  prince, 
To  a  brave,  worthy  soldier  for  your  brother? 

N  ANT  AQUAS.   Were  I  to  choose,  I'd  put  all  other  by 
To  make  his  path- way  clear  unto  my  sister. 
But  come,  sir,  shall  we  to  my  father's  banquet? 
One  of  my  train  I've  sent  to  give  him  tidings 
Of  your  long-wish'd  for  coming. 

SMITH.  Gentle  prince, 

You  greet  my  fresh  return  writh  welcome  summons, 
And  I  obey  it  cheerfully.    Good  Walter, 
And,  worthy  sir  [To  LARRY.],  be  it  your  care 
To  play  the  queen  bee  here,  and  keep  the  swarm 
Still  gathering  busily.    Look  to  it  well : 
Our  new-raised  hive  must  hold  no  drones  within  it. 
Now,  forward,  sirs,  to  Werocomoco. 

[Exeunt  SMITH,  PRINCE,  PERCY,  &c. 

Manent  WALTER  and  LARRY. 

WALTER.   So,  my  compeer  in  honour,  we  must  hold 
The  staff  of  sway  between  us. 

LARRY.  Arrah,  man, 

If  we  hould  it  between  us,  any  rogue 
Shall  run  clean  off  before  it  knocks  him  down, 
While  at  each  end  we  tug  for  mastery. 

WALTER.   Tush,  man!  we'll  strike  in  unison. 

LARRY.  Go  to — 

WALTER.   And  first,  let's  to  the  forest — the  young  sparks 
In  silken  doublets  there  are  felling  trees, 
Poor,  gentle  masters,  with  their  soft  palms  blister'd; 
And,  while  they  chop  and  chop,  they  swear  and  swear, 
Drowning  with  oaths  the  echo  of  their  axe. 

LARRY.   Are  they  so  hot  in  choler? 

WALTER.  Aye. 

LARRY.  We'll  cool  'em; 

And  pour  cold  patience  down  their  silken  sleeves. 

WALTER.   Cold  patience! 

LARRY.  In  the  shape  of  water,  honey. 

WALTER.   A  notable  discovery;  come  away! 

LARRY.   Ha!  isn't  that  a  sail? 

WALTER.  A  sail !  a  fleet !    [Looking  toward  the  river. 


6io  Representative  Plays 

Enter  TALMAN. 

TALMAN.   We  have  discovered  nine  tall  ships. 

LARRY.  Discovered ! 

Away,  you  rogue,  we  have  discovered  them, 
With  nature's  telescopes.    Run — scud — begone — 
Down  to  the  river!  Och,  St.  Pat,  I  thank  you! 

Go  toward  river.     Huzza  within.     Music  expresses  joyful  bustle. 
Scene  closes. 


SCENE  II.   A  grove. 
Enter  ROBIN  and  NIMA. 

ROBIN.  Aye,  bless  you,  I  knew  I  should  creep  into  your  heart 
at  last,  my  little  dusky  divinity. 

NIMA.    Divinity!  what's  that? 

ROBIN.  Divinity — it's  a — Oh,  it's  a  pretty  title  that  we  lords  of 
the  creation  bestow  upon  our  playthings.  But  hist!  here  they 
come.  Now  is  it  a  knotty  point  to  be  argued,  whether  this 
parting  doth  most  affect  the  mistress  and  master,  or  the  maid 
and  man.  Let  Cupid  be  umpire,  and  steal  the  scales  of  Justice  to 
weigh  our  heavy  sighs.  [Retire. 

Enter  ROLFE  and  POCAHONTAS. 

PRINCESS.    Nay,  let  me  on — 

ROLFE.  No  further,  gentle  love ; 

The  rugged  way  has  wearied  you  already. 

PRINCESS.    Feels  the  wood  pigeon  weariness,  who  flies, 
Mated  with  her  beloved?    Ah!  lover,  no. 

ROLFE.   Sweet!  in  this  grove  we  will  exchange  adieus; 
My  steps  should  point  straight  onward;  were  thou  with  me, 
Thy  voice  would  bid  me  quit  the  forward  path 
At  every  pace,  or  fix  my  side-long  look, 
Spell-bound,  upon  thy  beauties. 

PRINCESS.  Ah!  you  love  not 

The  wild-wood  prattle  of  the  Indian  maid, 
As  once  you  did. 

ROLFE.  By  heaven !  my  thirsty  ear, 

Could  ever  drink  its  liquid  melody. 


The  Indian  Princess  61 1 

Oh!  I  could  talk  with  thee,  till  hasty  night, 
Ere  yet  the  sentinel  day  had  done  his  watch ; 
Veil'd  like  a  spy,  should  steal  on  printles's  feet, 
To  listen  to  our  parley !    Dearest  love ! 
My  captain  has  arrived,  and  I  do  know, 
When  honour  and  when  duty  call  upon  me, 
Thou  wouldst  not  have  me  chid  for  tardiness. 
But,  ere  the  matin  of  to-morrow's  lark, 
Do  echo  from  the  roof  of  nature's  temple, 
Sweetest,  expect  me. 

PRINCESS.  Wilt  thou  surely  come? 

ROLFE.   To  win  thee  from  thy  father  will  I  come; 
And' my  commander's  voice  shall  join  with  mine, 
To  woo  Powhatan  to  resign  his  treasure. 

PRINCESS.   Go  then,  but  ah!  forget  not — 

ROLFE.  I'll  forget 

All  else,  to  think  on  thee ! 

PRINCESS.  Thou  art  my  life! 

I  lived  not  till  I  saw  thee,  love;  and  now, 
I  live  not  in  thine  absence.    Long,  Oh!  long 
I  was  the  savage  child  of  savage  Nature; 
And  when  her  flowers  sprang  up,  while  each  green  bough 
Sang  with  the  passing  west  wind's  rustling  breath; 
When  her  warm  visitor,  flush'd  Summer,  came, 
Or  Autumn  strew'd  her  yellow  leaves  around, 
Or  the  shrill  north  wind  pip'd  his  mournful  music, 
I  saw  the  changing  brow  of  my  wild  mother 
With  neither  love  nor  dread.    But  now,  Oh !  now, 
I  could  entreat  her  for  eternal  smiles, 
So  thou  might'st  range  through  groves  of  loveliest  flowers, 
Where  never  Winter,  with  his  icy  lip, 
Should  dare  to  press  thy  cheek. 

ROLFE.  My  sweet  enthusiast! 

PRINCESS.   O!  'tis  from  thee  that  I  have  drawn  my  being: 
Thou'st  ta'en  me  from  the  path  of  savage  error, 
Blood-stain'd  and  rude,  where  rove  my  countrymen, 
And  taught  me  heavenly  truths,  and  fill'd  my  heart 
With  sentiments  sublime,  and  sweet,  and  social. 
Oft  has  my  winged  spirit,  following  thine, 
Cours'd  the  bright  day-beam,  and  the  star  of  night, 
And  every  rolling  planet  of  the  sky, 


612  Representative  Plays 

Around  their  circling  orbits.    O  my  love! 

Guided  by  thee,  has  not  my  daring  soul, 

O'ertopt  the  far-off  mountains  of  the  east, 

Where,  as  our  fathers'  fable,  shad'wy  hunters 

Pursue  the  deer,  or  clasp  the  melting  maid, 

'Mid  ever  blooming  spring?   Thence,  soaring  high 

From  the  deep  vale  of  legendary  fiction, 

Hast  thou  not  heaven-ward  turn'd  my  dazzled  sight, 

Where  sing  the  spirits  of  the  blessed  good 

Around  the  bright  throne  of  the  Holy  One? 

This  thou  hast  done;  and  ah!  what  couldst  thou  more, 

Belov'd  preceptor,  but  direct  that  ray, 

Which  beams  from  Heaven  to  animate  existence, 

And  bid  my  swelling  bosom  beat  with  love! 

ROLFE.   O,  my  dear  scholar! 

PRINCESS.  Prithee,  chide  me,  love: 

My  idle  prattle  holds  thee  from  thy  purpose. 

ROLFE.   O!  speak  more  music!  and  I'll  listen  to  it, 
Like  stilly  midnight  to  sweet  Philomel. 

PRINCESS.    Nay,  now  begone;  for  thou  must  go:  ah!  fly, 
The  sooner  to  return — 

ROLFE.  Thus,  then,  adieu!  [Embrace. 

But,  ere  the  face  of  morn  blush  rosy  red, 
To  see  the  dew-besprent,  cold  virgin  ground 
Stain'd  by  licentious  step;  Oh,  long  before 
The  foot  of  th'  earliest  furred  forrester, 
Do  mark  its  imprint  on  morn's  misty  sheet, 
With  sweet  good  morrow  will  I  wake  my  love. 

PRINCESS.   To  bliss  thou'lt  wake  me,  for  I  sleep  till  then 
Only  with  sorrow's  poppy  on  my  lids. 

Music.    Embrace;  and  exit  ROLFE,  followed  by  ROBIN  ;  PRINCESS 
looks  around  despondingly. 

But  now,  how  gay  and  beauteous  was  this  grove! 
Sure  ev'ning's  shadows  have  enshrouded  it, 
And  'tis  the  screaming  bird  of  night  I  hear, 
Not  the  melodious  mock-bird.   Ah!  fond  girl! 
'Tis  o'er  thy  soul  the  gloomy  curtain  hangs; 
Tis  in  thy  heart  the  rough-toned  raven  sings. 
O  lover!  haste  to  my  benighted  breast; 
Come  like  the  glorious  sun,  and  bring  me  day ! 


The  Indian  Princess  613 

Song. 

When  the  midnight  of  absence  the  day-scene  pervading 
Distils  its  chill  dew  o'er  the  bosom  of  love, 

Oh,  how  fast  then  the  gay  tints  of  nature  are  fading! 
How  harsh  seems  the  music  of  joy  in  the  grove! 

While  the  tender  flow'r  droops  till  return  of  the  light, 

Steep'd  in  tear  drops  that  fall  from  the  eye  of  the  night. 

But  Oh !  when  the  lov'd-one  appears, 

Like  the  sun  a  bright  day  to  impart, 
To  kiss  off  those  envious  tears, 

To  give  a  new  warmth  to  the  heart; 
Soon  the  flow'ret  seeming  dead 
Raises  up  its  blushing  head, 
Glows  again  the  breast  of  love, 
Laughs  again  the  joyful  grove; 
While  once  more  the  mock-bird's  throat 
Trolls  the  sweetly  various  note. 
But  ah !  when  dark  absence  the  day-scene  pervading 

Distils  its  chill  dew  o'er  the  bosom  of  love, 
Oh!  fast  then  the  gay  tints  of  nature  are  fading! 

Oh!  harsh  seems  the  music  of  joy  in  the  grove! 
And  the  tender  flow'r  droops  till  return  of  the  light, 
Steep'd  in  tear  drops  that  fall  from  the  eye  of  the  night. 

PRINCESS.   Look,  Nima,  surely  I  behold  our  captive, 
The  prince  Miami,  and  our  cruel  priest. 

NIMA.   Lady,  'tis  they;  and  now  they  move  this  way. 

PRINCESS.   How  earnest  are  their  gestures;  ah!  my  Nima, 
When  souls  like  theirs  mingle  in  secret  council, 
Stern  murder's  voice  alone  is  listen'd  to. 
Miami  too  at  large — O  trembling  heart, 
Most  sad  are  thy  forebodings;  they  are  here — 
Haste,  Nima;  let  us  veil  us  from  their  view. 

[They  retire. 

Enter  MIAMI  and  GRIMOSCO. 

GRIMOSCO.  Be  satisfied;  I  cannot  fail — hither  the  king  will 
soon  come.  This  deep  shade  have  I  chosen  for  our  place  of 
meeting.  Hush!  he  comes.  Retire,  and  judge  if  Grimosco  have 
vainly  boasted — away!  [MIAMI  retires. 


614  Representative  Plays 

Enter  POWHATAN. 

POWHATAN.    Now,  priest,  I  attend  the  summons  of  thy  voice. 

GRIMOSCO.  So  you  consult  your  safety,  for  'tis  the  voice  of 
warning. 

POWHATAN.   Of  what  would  you  warn  me? 

GRIMOSCO.    Danger. 

POWHATAN.   From  whom? 

GRIMOSCO.   Your  enemies. 

POWHATAN.   Old  man,  these  have  I  conquered. 

GRIMOSCO.   The  English  still  exist. 

POWHATAN.   The  English! 

GRIMOSCO.  The  nobler  beast  of  the  forest  issues  boldly  from 
his  den,  and  the  spear  of  the  powerful  pierces  his  heart.  The 
deadly  adder  lurks  in  his  covert  till  the  unwary  footstep  approach 
him. 

POWHATAN.   I  see  no  adder  near  me. 

GRIMOSCO.  No,  for  thine  eyes  rest  only  on  the  flowers  under 
which  he  glides. 

POWHATAN.   Away,  thy  sight  is  dimmed  by  the  shadows  of  age. 

GRIMOSCO.  King,  for  forty  winters  hast  thou  heard  the  voice 
of  counsel  from  my  lips,  and  never  did  its  sound  deceive  thee; 
never  did  my  tongue  raise  the  war  cry,  and  the  foe  appeared  not. 
Be  warned  then  to  beware  the  white  man.  He  has  fixed  his 
serpent  eye  upon  you,  and,  like  the  charmed  bird,  you  flutter 
each  moment  nearer  to  the  jaw  of  death. 

POWHATAN.   How,  Grimosco? 

GRIMOSCO.  Do  you  want  proof  of  the  white  man's  hatred  to 
the  red?  Follow  him  along  the  bay;  count  the  kings  he  has 
conquered,  and  the  nations  that  his  sword  has  made  extinct. 

POWHATAN.  Like  a  warrior  he  subdued  them,  for  the  chain 
of  friendship  bound  them  not  to  each  other.  The  white  man  is 
brave  as  Aresqui;  and  can  the  brave  be  treacherous? 

GRIMOSCO.  Like  the  red  feathers  of  the  flamingo  is  craft,  the 
brightest  plume  that  graces  the  warrior's  brow.  Are  not  your 
people  brave?  Yet  does  the  friendly  tree  shield  them  while  the 
hatchet  is  thrown.  Who  doubts  the  courage  of  Powhatan?  Yet 
has  the  eye  of  darkness  seen  Powhatan  steal  to  the  surprise  of 
the  foe. 

POWHATAN.  Ha!  priest,  thy  words  are  true.  I  will  be  satis 
fied.  Even  now  I  received  a  swift  messenger  from  my  son: 


The  Indian  Princess  615 

to-day  he  will  conduct  the  English  to  my  banquet.  I  will  demand 
of  him  if  he  be  the  friend  of  Powhatan. 

GRIMOSCO.  Yes;  but  demand  it  of  him  as  thou  drawest  thy 
reeking  hatchet  from  his  cleft  head.  [KiNG  starts.]  The  de- 
spoilers  of  our  land  must  die ! 

POWHATAN.  What  red  man  can  give  his  eye-ball  the  glare  of 
defiance  when  the  white  chief  is  nigh?  He  who  stood  alone 
amidst  seven  hundred  foes,  and,  while  he  spurned  their  king  to 
the  ground,  dared  them  to  shoot  their  arrows;  who  will  say  to 
him,  "White  man,  I  am  thine  enemy?"  No  one.  My  chiefs 
would  be  children  before  him. 

GRIMOSCO.  The  valour  of  thy  chiefs  may  slumber,  but  the 
craft  of  thy  priest  shall  watch.  When  the  English  sit  at  that 
banquet  from  which  they  shall  never  rise;  when  their  eyes 
read  nothing  but  friendship  in  thy  looks,  there  shall  hang  a 
hatchet  over  each  victim  head,  w.hich,  at  the  silent  signal  of 
Grimosco — 

POWHATAN.  Forbear,  counsellor  of  death!  Powhatan  cannot 
betray  those  who  have  vanquished  his  enemies;  who  are  his 
friends,  his  brothers. 

GRIMOSCO.  Impious!  Can  the  enemies  of  your  God  be  your 
friends?  Can  the  children  of  another  parent  be  your  brethren? 
You  are  deaf  to  the  counsellor:  'tis  your  priest  now  speaks. 
I  have  heard  the  angry  voice  of  the  Spirit  you  have  offended; 
offended  by  your  mercy  to  his  enemies.  Dreadful  was  his  voice; 
fearful  were  his  words.  Avert  his  wrath,  or  thou  art  condemned; 
and  the  white  men  are  the  ministers  of  his  vengeance. 

POWHATAN.   Priest! 

GRIMOSCO.   From  the  face  of  the  waters  will  he  send  them,  1 
in  mighty  tribes,  and  our  shores  will  scarce  give  space  for  their 
footsteps.    Powhatan  will  fly  before  them;  his  beloved  child,  his 
wives,  all  that  is  dear  to  him,  he  will  leave  behind.     Powhatan 
will  fly;   but  whither?   which  of  his  tributary  kings  will  shelter 
him?    Not  one.    Already  they  cry,  "Powhatan  is  ruled  by  the  » 
white;  we  will  no  longer  be  the  slaves  of  a  slave!"  J 

POWHATAN.  Ha! 

GRIMOSCO.  Despoiled  of  his  crown,  Powhatan  will  be  hunted 
from  the  land  of  his  ancestors.  To  strange  woods  will  the  fugi 
tive  be  pursued  by  the  Spirit  whom  he  has  angered — 

POWHATAN.  Oh,  dreadful! 


6i6  Representative  Plays 

GRIMOSCO.  And  at  last,  when  the  angel  of  death  obeys  his 
call  of  anguish,  whither  will  go  his  condemned  soul?  Not  to  the 
fair  forests,  where  his  brave  fathers  are.  Oh !  never  will  Powhatan 
clasp  the  dear  ones  who  have  gone  before  him.  His  exiled,  soli 
tary  spirit  will  forever  houl  on  the  barren  heath  where  the  wings 
of  darkness  rest.  No  ray  of  hope  shall  visit  him ;  eternal  will  be 
his  night  of  despair. 

POWHATAN.  Forbear,  forbear!  O  priest,  teach  me  to  avert 
the  dreadful  doom. 

GRIMOSCO.   Let  the  white  men  be  slaughtered. 

POWHATAN.   The  angry  Spirit  shall  be  appeased.    Come. 

[Exit. 

GRIMOSCO.  Thy  priest  will  follow  thee. 

Enter  MIAMI. 

MIAMI.  Excellent  Grimosco!  Thy  breath,  priest,  is  a 
deadly  pestilence,  and  hosts  fall  before  it.  Yet — still  is  Miami 
a  captive. 

GRIMOSCO.  Fear  not.  Before  Powhatan  reach  Werocomoco 
thou  shalt  be  free.  Come. 

MIAMI.  Oh,  my  soul  hungers  for  the  banquet;  for  then  shall 
Miami  feast  on  the  heart  of  his  rival! 

[Exeunt  with  savage  triumph. 

'Music.  The  PRINCESS  rushes  forward,  terror  depicted  in  her  face. 
After  running  alternately  to  each  side,  and  stopping  undetermined 
and  bewildered,  speaks. 

PRINCESS.    O  whither  shall  I  fly?  what  course  pursue? 
At  Werocomoco,  my  frenzied  looks 
Would  sure  betray  me.    What  if  hence  I  haste? 
I  may  o'ertake  my  lover,  or  encounter 
My  brother  and  his  friends.    Away,  my  Nima! 

[Exit  NIMA. 

O  holy  Spirit!  thou  whom  my  dear  lover 

Has  taught  me  to  adore  and  think  most  merciful, 

Wing  with  thy  lightning's  speed  my  flying  feet ! 

[Music.  Exit  PRINCESS. 


The  Indian  Princess  617 

SCENE  III.    Near  Jamestown. 
Enter  LARRY,  and  KATE  as  a  page. 

LARRY.  Nine  ships,  five  hundred  men,  and  a  lord  governor! 
Och!  St.  Patrick's  blessing  be  upon  them;  they'll  make  this  land 
flow  with  buttermilk  like  green  Erin.  What  say  you,  master 
page,  isn't  this  a  nice  neat  patch  to  plant  potatoes — I  mean, 
to  plant  a  nation  in? 

KATE.   There's  but  one  better. 

LARRY.   And  which  might  that  be? 

KATE.    E'en  little  green  Erin  that  you  spoke  of. 

LARRY.  And  were  you  ever — och,  give  me  your  fist — were  you 
ever  in  Ireland? 

KATE.    It's  there  I  was  born — 

LARRY.    I  saw  its  bloom  on  your  cheek. 

KATE.   And  bred. 

LARRY.    I  saw  it  in  your  manners. 

KATE.  Oh,  your  servant,  sir.  [Bows.]  And  there,  too,  I  fell  in 
love. 

LARRY.  And,  by  the  powers,  so  did  I ;  and  if  a  man  don't  fall 
into  one  of  the  beautiful  bogs  that  Cupid  has  digged  there,  faith 
he  may  stand  without  tumbling,  though  he  runs  over  all  the 
world  beside.  Och,  the  creatures,  I  can  see  them  now — 

KATE.   Such  sparkling  eyes — 

LARRY.   Rosy  cheeks — 

KATE.   Pouting  lips — 

LARRY.   Tinder  hearts!  Och,  sweet  Ireland! 

KATE.  Aye,  it  was  there  that  I  fixed  my  affections  after  all 
my  wanderings. 

Song. — KATE. 

Young  Edward,  through  many  a  distant  place, 
Had  wandering  pass'd,  a  thoughtless  ranger; 
And,  cheer 'd  by  a  smile  from  beauty's  face, 
Had  laugh'd  at  the  frowning  face  of  danger. 

Fearless  Ned, 

Careless  Ned, 
Never  with  foreign  dames  was  a  stranger; 

And  huff, 

Bluff, 
He  laugh'd  at  the  frowning  face  of  danger. 


6i8  Representative  Plays 

But  journeying  on  to  his  native  place, 

Through  Ballinamone  pass'd  the  stranger; 
Where,  fix'd  by  the  charms  of  Katy's  face, 
He  swore  he'd  no  longer  be  a  ranger, 

Pretty  Kate, 

Witty  Kate, 
Vow'd  that  no  time  could  ever  change  her; 

And  kiss, 

Bliss— 
O,  she  hugg'd  to  her  heart  the  welcome  stranger. 

LARRY.   How's  that?    Ballinamone,  Kate,  did  you  say,  Kate? 

KATE.   Aye,  Katy  Maclure;  as  neat  a  little  wanton  tit — 

LARRY.  My  wife  a  wanton  tit! — Hark  ye,  master  Whipper- 
snapper,  do  you  pretend — 

KATE.  Pretend!  no,  faith,  sir,  I  scorn  to  pretend,  sir;  I  am 
above  boasting  of  ladies'  favours,  unless  I  receive  'em.  Pretend, 
quotha! 

LARRY.   Fire  and  faggots!    Favours! — 

KATE.   You  seem  to  know  the  girl,  mister — a — 

LARRY.   Know  her!  she's  my  wife. 

KATE.  Your  wife!  Ridiculous!  I  thought,  by  your  pother, 
that  she  had  been  your  friend's  wife,  or  your  mistress.  Hark 
ye,  mister — a — cuckoo — 

LARRY.   Cuckoo ! 

KATE.   Your  ear.    Your  wife  loved  me  as  she  did  herself. 

LARRY.  She  did? 

KATE.   Couldn't  live  without  me;  all  day  we  were  together. 

LARRY.   You  were! 

KATE.   As  I'm  a  cavalier;  and  all  night — we  lay 

LARRY.  How? 

KATE.  How!  why,  close  as  two  twin  potatoes;  in  the  same 
bed,  egad! 

LARRY.  Tunder  and  turf!  I'll  split  you  from  the  coxcomb  to 
the 

KATE.   Ay,  do  split  the  twin  potato  asunder,  do. 

[Discovers  herself. 

LARRY.  It  is — no — what!  Och,  is  it  nobody  but  yourself? 
O  my  darling! — [Catches  her  in  his  arms.]  And  so — But  how 
did  you? — And  where — and  what — 0  boderation!  [Kisses.] 


The  Indian  Princess  619 

And  how  d'  ye  do?  and  how's  your  mother?  and  the  pigs  and 
praties,  and — kiss  me,  Kate.  [Kiss. 

KATE.   So;  now  may  I  speak? 

LARRY.  Aye,  do  be  telling  me — but  stop  every  now  and  then, 
that  I  may  point  your  story  with  a  grammatical  kiss. 

KATE.  Oh,  hang  it !  you'll  be  for  putting  nothing  but  periods  to 
my  discourse. 

LARRY.  Faith,  and  I  should  be  for  counting — [Kisses.] — four. 
— Arrah!  there,  then;  I've  done  with  that  sentence. 

KATE.  You  remember  what  caused  me  to  stay  behind,  when 
you  embarked  for  America? 

LARRY.  Aye,  'twas  because  of  your  old  sick  mother.  And  how 
does  the  good  lady?  [KATE  weeps. ]  Ah!  well,  Heaven  rest  her 
soul. — Cheerly,  cheerly.  To  be  sure,  I  can't  give  you  a  mother; 
but  I  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  I'll  give  your  children  one;  and  that's 
the  same  thing,  you  know.  So,  kiss  me,  Kate.  Cheerly. 

KATE.  One  day,  as  I  sat  desolate  in  my  cottage,  a  carriage 
broke  down  near  it,  from  which  a  young  lady  was  thrown  with 
great  violence.  My  humble  cabin  received  her,  and  I  attended 
her  till  she  was  able  to  resume  her  journey. 

LARRY.   My  kind  Kate! 

KATE.  The  sweet  young  lady  promised  me  her  protection, 
and  pressed  me  to  go  with  her.  So,  having  no  mother — nor 
Larry  to  take  care  of 

LARRY.   You  let  the  pigs  and  praties  take  care  of  themselves. 

KATE.  I  placed  an  honest,  poor  neighbour  in  my  cottage,  and 
followed  the  fortunes  of  my  mistress — and — O  Larry,  such  an 
angel ! 

LARRY.    But  where  is  she? 

KATE.    Here,  in  Virginia. 

LARRY.   Here? 

KATE.   Aye,  but  that's  a  secret. 

LARRY.   Oh !  is  it  so?  that's  the  reason  then  you  won't  tell  it  me. 

GERALDINE,  as  a  page,  and  WALTER  appear  behind. 

KATE.   That's  she. 
LARRY.   Where? 
KATE.   There. 

LARRY.  Bother !  I  see  no  one  but  a  silken  cloaked  spark,  and 
our  Wat;  devil  a  petticoat ! 


62O  Representative  Plays 

KATE.   That  spark  is  my  mistress. 

LARRY.    Be  asy.    Are  you  sure  you  ar'n't  his  mistress? 

KATE.   Tut,  now  you've  got  the  twin  potatoes  in  your  head. 

LARRY.  Twins  they  must  be,  if  any,  for  faith  I  hav'n't  had  a 
single  potato  in  my  head  this  many  a  long  day.  But  come,  my 
Kate,  tell  me  how  you  and  your  mistress  happened  to  jump  into — 

KATE.   Step  aside  then. 

LARRY.    Have  with  you,  my  dapper  page.  [They  retire. 

GERALDINE  and  WALTER  advance. 

GERALDINE.   You  know  this  Percy,  then? 

WALTER.  Know  him!  Oh,  yes! 

He  makes  this  wild  wood,  here,  a  past'ral  grove. 
He  is  a  love-lorn  shepherd ;  an  Orlando, 
Carving  love-rhymes  and  ciphers  on  the  trees, 
And  warbling  dying  ditties  of  a  lady 
He  calls  false  Geraldine. 

GERALDINE.  O  my  dear  Percy! 

How  has  one  sad  mistake  marr'd  both  our  joys!  [Aside. 

WALTER.   Yet  though  a  shepherd,  he  can  wield  a  sword 
As  easy  as  a  crook. 

GERALDINE.  Oh !  he  is  brave. 

WALTER.   As  Julius  Caesar,  sir,  or  Hercules; 
Or  any  other  hero  that  you  will, 
Except  our  captain. 

GERALDINE.  Is  your  captain,  then, 

Without  his  peer? 

WALTER.  Aye,  marry  is  he,  sir, 

Sans  equal  in  this  world.    I've  follow'd  him 
Half  o'er  the  globe,  and  seen  him  do  such  deeds! 
His  shield  is  blazon'd  with  three  Turkish  heads. 

GERALDINE.   Well,  sir. 

WALTER.  And  I,  boy,  saw  him  win  the  arms; 

Oh,  'twas  the  bravest  act! 

GERALDINE.  Prithee,  recount  it. 

WALTER.  It  was  at  Regal,  close  beleaguer'd  then 

By  the  duke  Sigismund  of  Transylvania, 
Our  captain's  general.    One  day,  from  the  gate 
There  issued  a  gigantic  mussulman, 
And  threw  his  gauntlet  down  upon  the  ground, 


The  Indian  Princess  621 

Daring  our  Christian  knights  to  single  combat. 
It  was  our  captain,  sir,  pick'd  up  the  glove, 
And  scarce  the  trump  had  sounded  to  the  onset, 
When  the  Turk  Turbisha  had  lost  his  head. 
His  brother,  fierce  Grualdo,  enter'd  next, 
But  left  the  lists  sans  life  or  turban  too. 
Last  came  black  Bonamolgro,  and  he  paid 
The  same  dear  forfeit  for  the  same  attempt. 
And  now  my  master,  like  a  gallant  knight, 
His  sabre  studied  o'er  with  ruby  gems, 
Prick'd  on  his  prancing  courser  round  the  field, 
In  vain  inviting  fresh  assailants;  while 
The  beauteous  dames  of  Regal,  who,  in  throngs 
Lean'd  o'er  the  rampart  to  behold  the  tourney, 
Threw  show'rs  of  scarfs  and  favours  from  the  wall, 
And  wav'd  their  hands,  and  bid  swift  Mercuries 
Post  from  their  eyes  with  messages  of  love; 
While  manly  modesty  and  graceful  duty 
Wav'd  on  his  snowy  plume,  and,  as  he  rode, 
Bow'd  down  his  casque  unto  the  saddle  bow. 

GERALDINE.    It  was  a  deed  of  valour,  and  you've  dress'd  it 
In  well-beseeming  terms.    And  yet,  methinks, 
I  wonder  at  the  ladies'  strange  delight; 
And  think  the  spectacle  might  better  suit 
An  audience  of  warriors  than  of  women. 
I'm  sure  I  should  have  shudder'd — that  is,  sir, 
If  I  were  woman. 

WALTER.  Cry  your  mercy,  page ; 

Were  you  a  woman,  you  would  love  the  brave. 
You're  yet  but  boy;  you'll  know  the  truth  of  this, 
When  father  Time  writes  man  upon  your  chin. 

GERALDINE.   No  doubt  I  shall,  sir,  when  I  get  a  beard. 

WALTER.    My  master,  boy,  has  made  it  crystal  clear: 
Be  but  a  Mars,  and  you  shall  have  your  Venus. 

Song — WALTER. 

Captain  Smith  is  a  man  of  might, 
In  Venus'  soft  wars  or  in  Mars'  bloody  fight: 
For  of  widow,  or  wife,  or  of  damsel  bright, 
A  bold  blade,  you  know,  is  all  the  dandy. 


622  Representative  Plays 

One  day  his  sword  he  drew, 
And  a  score  of  Turks  he  slew; 

When  done  his  toil, 

He  snatch'd  the  spoil, 

And,  as  a  part, 

The  gentle  heart 
Of  the  lovely  lady  Tragabizandy.  • 

Captain  Smith  trod  the  Tartar  land ; 
While  before  him,  in  terror,  fled  the  turban'd  band, 
With  his  good  broad-sword,  that  he  whirl'd  in  his  hand, 
To  a  three-tail'd  bashaw  he  gave  a  pat-a. 

The  bashaw,  in  alarm, 
Turn'd  tails,  and  fled  his  arm. 

But  face  to  face, 

With  lovely  grace, 

In  all  her  charms, 

Rush'd  to  his  arms 
The  beautiful  lady  Calamata. 

Captain  Smith,  from  the  foaming  seas, 
From  pirates,  and  shipwreck,  and  miseries, 
In  a  French  lady's  arms  found  a  haven  of  ease; 
Her  name — pshaw!  from  memory  quite  gone  't  has. 

And  on  this  savage  shore, 

Where  his  faulchion  stream'd  with  gore, 

His  noble  heart 

The  savage  dart 

Had  quiver'd  through; 

But  swifter  flew 
To  his  heart  the  pretty  princess  Pocahontas.        [Exit  WALTER. 

Enter  KATE. 
GERALDINE.   Now,  brother  page — 

KATE.  Dear  mistress,  I  have  found 

My  faithful  Larry. 

GERALDINE.  Happy  girl!  and  I 

Hope  soon  to  meet  my  heart's  dear  lord,  my  Percy. 
Hist!  the  lord  governor — 


The  Indian  Princess  623 

KATE.  He  little  thinks 

Who  is  the  page  he  loves  so — 
GERALDINE.  Silence. 

KATE.  Mum. 

Enter  DELAWAR,  WALTER,  LARRY,  &c. 

DELAWAR.   Each  noble  act  of  his  that  you  recite 
Challenge  all  my  wonder  and  applause. 
Your  captain  is  a  brave  one;  and  I  long 
To  press  the  hero's  hand.    But  look,  my  friends, 
What  female's  this,  who,  like  the  swift  Camilla, 
On  airy  step  flies  hitherward? 

WALTER.  My  lord, 

This  is  the  lovely  princess  you  have  heard  of; 
Our  infant  colony's  best  patroness; 
Nay,  sir,  its  foster-mother. 

DELAWAR.  Mark  how  wild— 

Music.    The  PRINCESS  enters,  with  wild  anxiety  in  her  looks; 
searches  eagerly  around  for  SMITH  and  ROLFE. 

DELAWAR.   Whom  do  you  look  for,  lady? 

PRINCESS.  They  are  gone! 

Gone  to  be  slaughter'd ! 

WALTER.  If  you  seek  our  captain, 

He  has  departed  for  your  father's  banquet. 

PRINCESS.   Then  they  have  met,  and  they  will  both  be  lost, 
My  lover  and  my  friend.    O!  faithless  path, 
That  led  me  from  my  lover!  Strangers,  fly! 
If  you're  the  white  man's  friends — 

DELAWAR.  Lady,  we  are. 

PRINCESS.   Then  fly  to  save  them  from  destruction! 

DELAWAR.  How? 

PRINCESS.    Inquire  not;  speak  not;  treachery  and  death 
Await  them  at  the  banquet. 

DELAWAR.  Haste,  my  friends, 

Give  order  for  immediate  departure. 

PRINCESS.    E'en  now,  perhaps,  they  bleed!  O  lover!  brother! 
Fly,  strangers,  fly! 

Music.    Drum  beats;  a  bustle;  scene  closes. 


624  Representative  Plays 

SCENE  IV.  At  Werocomoco;  banquet.  SMITH,  ROLFE,  PERCY, 
N  ANT  AQUAS,  POWHATAN,  &c.,  seated.  GRIMOSCO,  MIAMI  and  a 
number  of  INDIANS  attending. 

POWHATAN.  White  warriors,  this  is  the  feast  of  peace,  and  yet 
you  wear  your  arms.  Will  not  my  friends  lay  by  their  warlike 
weapons?  They  fright  our  fearful  people. 

SMITH.   Our  swords  are  part  of  our  apparel,  king; 
Nor  need  your  people  fear  them.    They  shall  rest 
Peaceful  within  their  scabbards,  if  Powhatan 
Call  them  not  forth,  with  voice  of  enmity. 

POWHATAN.   Oh,  that  can  never  be !  feast  then  in  peace, 
Children  and  friends — 

Leaves  his  place  and  comes  forward  to  GRIMOSCO. 

O  priest!  my  soul  is  afraid  it  will  be  stained  with  dishonour. 

GRIMOSCO.  Away!  the  Great  Spirit  commands  you.  Resume 
your  seat ;  hold  the  white  men  in  discourse ;  I  will  but  thrice  wave 
my  hand,  and  your  foes  are  dead.  [KiNG  resumes  his  seat.}  [To 
MIAMI.]  Now,  prince,  has  the  hour  of  vengeance  arrived. 

POWHATAN.  [With  a  faltering  voice.]  Think  not,  white  men, 
that  Powhatan  wants  the  knowledge  to  prize  your  friendship. 
Powhatan  has  seen  three  generations  pass  away;  and  his  locks 
of  age  do  not  float  upon  the  temples  of  folly. 

GRIMOSCO  waves  his  hand:  the  INDIANS  steal  behind  the  ENGLISH, 
MIAMI  behind  ROLFE.  KING  proceeds. 

If  a  leaf  but  fall  in  the  forest,  my  people  cry  out  with  terror, 
"hark!  the  white  warrior  comes!"  Chief,  thou  art  terrible  as  an 
enemy,  and  Powhatan  knows  the  value  of  thy  friendship. 

GRIMOSCO  waves  his  ftand  again;  the  INDIANS  seize  their  tomahawks, 
and. prepare  to  strike.  KING  goes  on. 

Think  not,  therefore,  Powhatan  can  attempt  to  deceive  thee — 

The  KING'S  voice  trembles;  he  stops,  unable  to  proceed.  The  IN 
DIANS'  eyes  are  fixed  on  GRIMOSCO,  waiting  for  the  last  signal. 
At  this  moment  the  PRINCESS  rushes  in. 

PRINCESS.   Treachery  to  the  white  men! 


The  Indian  Princess  625 

At  the  same  instant,  drum  and  trumpet  without.  Music.  The 
ENGLISH  seize  the  uplifted  arms  of  the  INDIANS,  and  form  a  tableau, 
as  enter  DELAWAR  and  his  party.  After  the  music,  the  SOLDIERS 
take  charge  of  the  INDIANS.  POCAHONTAS  flies  to  the  arms  of 

ROLFE. 

NANTAQUAS.   O  father! 

[POWHATAN  is  transfixed  with  confusion. 

SMITH.   Wretched  king!  what  fiend  could  urge  you? 

POWHATAN.  Shame  ties  the  tongue  of  Powhatan.  Ask  of  that 
fiend-like  priest,  how,  to  please  the  angry  Spirit,  I  was  to  massa 
cre  my  friends. 

SMITH.    Holy  Religion !  still  beneath  the  veil 
Of  sacred  piety  what  crimes  lie  hid ! 
Bear  hence  that  monster.    Thou  ferocious  prince — 

MIAMI.    Miami's  tortures  shall  not  feast  your  eyes! 

{Stabbing  himself. 

SMITH.    Rash  youth,  thou  mightst  have  liv'd — 

MIAMI.   Liv'd!  man,  look  there! 

[Pointing  to  ROLFE  and  PRINCESS.    He  is  borne  off. 

POWHATAN.   Oh,  if  the  false  Powhatan  might — 

SMITH.  No  more. 

Wiser  than  thou  have  been  the  dupes  of  priesthood. 
Your  hand.    The  father  of  this  gen'rous  pair 
I  cannot  choose  but  love.    My  noble  lord, 
I  pray  you  pardon  my  scant  courtesy 
And  sluggish  duty,  which  so  tardy-paced 
Do  greet  your  new  arrival — 

DELAWAR.  Valiant  captain ! 

Virtue-ennobled  sir,  a  hero's  heart 
Will  make  mine  proud  by  its  most  near  acquaintance. 

[Embrace. 

SMITH.   Your  coming  was  most  opportune,  my  lord. 
One  moment  more — 

DELAWAR.  Nay,  not  to  us  the  praise. 

Behold  the  brilliant  star  that  led  us  on. 

SMITH.   Oh!  blest  is  still  its  kindly  influence! 
Could  a  rough  soldier  play  the  courtier,  lady, 
His  practis'd  tongue  might  grace  thy  various  goodness, 
With  proper  phrase  of  thanks;  but  oh!  reward  thee! 
Heaven  only  can — 


626  Representative  Plays 

PRINCESS.  And  has,  my  brother.    See! 

I  have  its  richest  gift.  [Turning  to  ROLFE. 

ROLFE.  My  dearest  love! 

SMITH.    Her  brother,  sir,  and  worthy  of  that  name. 

Introduces  NANTAQUAS  to  DELAWAR;    PERCY  and  GERALDINE, 
who  had  been  conversing,  advance. 

PERCY.   You  tell  me  wonders. 

GERALDINE.  But  not  miracles. 

Being  near  the  uncle,  sir,  I  knew  the  lady. 

PERCY.   And  was  I  then  deceived? 

GERALDINE.  What,  gentle  Percy! 

Young  man,  'twas  not  well  done,  in  idle  pique, 
To  wound  the  heart  that  lov'd  you. 

PERCY.  O  sir!  speak! 

My  Geraldine,  your  niece,  is  she  not  married? 

DELAWAR.    Nor  like  to  be,  poor  wench,  but  to  her  grave, 
If  mourning  for  false  lovers  break  maids'  hearts. 

PERCY.   Was  she  then  true?    O  madman!  idiot! 
To  let  the  feeble  breath  of  empty  rumour 
Drive  me  from  heavenly  happiness! 

DELAWAR.  Poor  girl ! 

She  fain  would  have  embark'd  with  me. 

PERCY.  Ah,  sir! 

Why  did  she  not? 

DELAWAR.  Marry,  sir,  I  forbade  her: 

The  rough  voyage  would  have  shook  her  slender  health 
To  dissolution. 

GERALDINE.  Pardon,  sir;  not  so — 

DELAWAR.   How  now,  pert  page? 

GERALDINE.  For  here  she  is,  my  lord. 

And  the  rough  voyage  has  giv'n  her  a  new  life. 

PERCY.    My  Geraldine! 

DELAWAR.  My  niece!  O  brazenface! 

Approach  me  not;   fly  from  your  uncle's  anger; 
Fly  to  your  husband's  arms  for  shelter,  hussy! 

[GERALDINE  flies  to  PERCY'S  embrace. 

PERCY.   Oh!  speechless  transport!  mute  let  me  infold  thee! 

DELAWAR.    [To  KATE.]    And  you,  my  little  spark,  perhaps, 
your  cloak 


The  Indian  Princess  627 

Covers  another  duteous  niece — or  daughter. 
Speak,  lady :  for  I  see  that  title  writ 
In  crimson  characters  upon  your  cheek. 
Art  of  my  blood? 

LARRY.  No,  sir,  she's  of  my  flesh ; 

Flesh  of  my  flesh,  my  lord.    Now,  arrah,  Kate, 
Don't  blush.    This  goodly  company  all  knows 
My  flesh  may  wear  the  breeches,  without  scandal. 

WALTER.   Listen  not,  Alice,  to  his  sophistry. 
Sir,  if  our  good  wives  learn  this  argument, 
They'll  logically  pluck  away  our — 

ALICE.  Tut: 

Fear  ye  not  that;  for  when  a  woman  would, 
She'll  draw  them  on  without  a  rule  of  reason. 

DELAWAR.   Methinks  'tis  pairing  time  among  the  turtles. 
Who  have  we  here? 

ROBIN  and  NIMA  come  forward. 

ROBIN.  A  pair  of  pigeons,  sir;  or  rather  a  robin  and  a  dove. 
A  wild  thing,  sir,  that  I  caught  in  the  wood  here.  But  when  I 
have  dipt  her  wings,  and  tamed  her,  I  hope  (without  offence  to 
this  good  company)  that  we  shall  bill  without  biting  more  than 
our  neighbours. 

SMITH.   Joy  to  ye,  gentle  lovers;  joy  to  all; 
A  goodly  circle,  and  a  fair.    Methinks 
Wild  Nature  smooths  apace  her  savage  frown, 
Moulding  her  features  to  a  social  smile. 
Now  flies  my  hope-wing'd  fancy  o'er  the  gulf 
That,  lies  between  us  and  the  aftertime, 
When  this  fine  portion  of  the  globe  shall  teem 
With  civiliz'd  society;  when  arts, 
And  industry,  and  elegance  shall  reign, 
As  the  shrill  war-cry  of  the  savage  man 
Yields  to  the  jocund  shepherd's  roundelay. 
Oh,  enviable  country!  thus  disjoin'd- 
From  old  licentious  Europe!  may'st  thou  rise, 
Free  from  those  bonds  which  fraud  and  superstition 
Tn_barbarous  ages  have  enchain'd  her  with ; — 
Bidding  the  antique  world  with  wonder  view 
A  great,  yet  virtuous  empire  in  the  west! 


628  Representative  Plays 

Finale. 

Freedom,  on  the  western  shore 
Float  thy  banner  o'er  the  brave; 

Plenty,  here  thy  blessings  pour; 
Peace,  thy  olive  sceptre  wave ! 

PERCY,  WALTER,  &c. 

Fire-eyed  Valour,  guard  the  land; 
Here  uprear  thy  fearless  crest; 

PRINCESS,  KATE,  ALICE,  &c. 

Love,  diffuse  thy  influence  bland 
O'er  the  regions  of  the  west. 

t       CHORUS,  Freedom,  &c. 

LARRY. 

Hither,  lassie,  frank  and  pretty, 
Come  and  live  without  formality. 

Thou,  in  English  christen'd  Pity, 
But  call'd,  in  Irish,  Hospitality. 
CHORUS,  Freedom,  &c. 

The  End. 


SHE  WOULD   BE  A   SOLDIER 

By  M.  M.  NOAH 


M.  M.  NOAH 


MORDECAI  MANUEL  NOAH 

(1785-1851) 

Mr.  Noah  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  July  19,  1785,  the  son  of 
Portuguese  Jewish  descent,  it  being  stated  by  some  sources  that 
his  father  not  only  fought  in  the  Revolutionary  Army,  but  was  a 
sufficient  friend  of  George  Washington  to  have  the  latter  attend 
his  wedding.  In  his  early  years,  he  was  apprenticed,  according  to 
the  custom  of  the  day,  to  a  carver  and  gilder,  but  he  spent  most 
of  his  evenings  in  the  Franklin  Library  and  at  the  theatre,  likewise 
attending  school  in  his  spare  time,  where,  among  the  pupils,  he 
met  John  and  Steven  Decatur,  famed  afterwards  in  the  history  of 
the  American  Navy.  He  filled  a  minor  position  in  the  Auditor's 
office  in  Philadelphia,  but  his  tastes  inclined  more  to  journalistic 
than  they  did  to  desk  work,  and,  in  1800,  he  travelled  to  Harris- 
burg  as  a  political  reporter. 

Several  years  after  this,  he  went  to  Charleston,  and  studied  law, 
but  before  he  had  had  a  chance  to  practise,  he  became  the  editor 
of  the  Charleston  City  Gazette,  and,  advocating  those  principles 
which  resulted  in  the  War  of  1812,  he  used  his  pen,  under  the 
pseudonym  of  Muley  Molack,  to  disseminate  those  ideas  in  edi 
torials.  The  consequence  is  he  encouraged  much  hatred,  and  was 
forced  into  many  duels  to  support  his  opinions.  In  1811,  he  was 
offered  the  position  of  Consul  at  Riga  by  President  Madison,  but 
declined.  In  1813,  he  was  sent  by  Mr.  Monroe,  as  Consul,  to 
Tunis,  at  a  time  when  the  United  States  was  having  trouble  with 
Algerian  piracy. 

During  all  this  period,  his  pen  was  actively  busy,  and  while  he 
was  abroad  he  did  much  travelling  which  resulted,  in  1819,  in  his 
publishing  a  book  of  travels. 

In  1816,  he  returned  to  New  York,  and  settled  there  as  a 
journalist.  Being  a  Tammanyite  in  politics,  we  find  him  filling 
the  position  of  Sheriff,  Judge  and  Surveyor  of  the  Port  at  various 
periods.  He  was,  likewise,  an  editor  of  some  skill,  and  his  name  is 
associated  with  the  columns  of  the  New  York  Enquirer,  the 
Evening  Star,  the  Commercial  Advertiser  „  the  Union,  and  the 
Times  and  Messenger. 


632  Representative  Plays 

His  political  career  may  be  measured  in  the  following  manner: 

In  1821  he  became  Sheriff.  In  1823,  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar 
of  New  York,  and  in  1829  to  the  bar  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the 
United  States.  This  same  year  he  was  appointed  Surveyor  of  the 
Port  of  New  York. 

Entering  very  prominently  in  politics,  he  opposed  the  election 
of  Van  Buren,  and  gave  his  vote  to  General  Harrison.  Governor 
Seward  appointed  him,  in  1841,  Judge  of  the  Court  of  Sessions. 
The  same  year  he  was  made  a  Supreme  Court  Commissioner. 

It  was  in  1825  that,  as  one  of  the  early  Zionists  of  America, 
he  entered  into  negotiations  for  the  purchase  of  nearly  three 
thousand  acres  of  land  on  Grand  Island,  in  New  York  State, 
where  it  was  his  dream  to  establish  the  City  of  Ararat,  a  haven 
of  Judaism  in  this  country.  This  venture  became  the  basis  for  a 
story  by  Israel  Zangwill,  called  "Noah's  Ark."  He  died  in  New 
York  on  March  22,  1851,  having  lived  in  that  city  since  1813. 

Any  full  Bibliography  will  give  a  sufficient  idea  of  the  scope  of 
Major  Noah's  pen.  He  lived  at  a  time  when  American  Letters 
were  beginning  to  develop,  himself  a  friend  of  most  of  the  literary 
figures  of  the  day — Cooper,  Irving,  Fitz-Green  Halleck  and 
others.  And  we  have  an  excellent  impression  of  the  manner  in 
which  the  younger  literary  men  regarded  the  authority  of  Noah 
in  the  "Reminiscences"  of  J.  T.  Trowbridge: 

"Come  with  me,"  he  [Mr.  Noah]  said,  putting  on  his  hat;  and 
we  went  out  together,  I  with  my  roll  of  manuscript,  he  with  his 
stout  cane.  Even  if  I  had  been  unaware  of  the  fact,  I  should  very 
soon  have  discovered  that  I  was  in  company  with  an  important 
personage.  Everybody  observed  him,  and  it  seemed  as  if  every 
third  or  fourth  man  we  met  gave  him  a  respectful  salute.  He 
continued  his  friendly  talk  with  me  in  a  way  that  relieved  me  of 
all  sense  of  my  own  insignificance  in  the  shadow  of  his  celebrity 
and  august  proportions. 

As  far  as  his  theatrical  association  is  concerned,  we  can  have 
no  better  source  of  information  than  a  letter  written  by  Noah  to 
William  Dunlap,  and  published  in  the  latter's  "History  of  the 
American  Theatre."  It  is  quoted  in  full: 

New- York,  July  n,  1832. 
To  William  Dunlap,  Esq., 
Dear  Sir: 

I  am  happy  to  hear  that  your  work  on  the  American  Drama  is  in 
press,  and  trust  that  you  may  realize  from  it  that  harvest  of  fame 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  633 

and  money  to  which  your  untiring  industry  and  diversified  labours 
give  you  an  eminent  claim.  You  desire  me  to  furnish  you  a  list  of 
my  dramatic  productions;  it  will,  my  dear  sir,  constitute  a  sorry 
link  in  the  chain  of  American  writers — my  plays  have  all  been  ad 
captandum:  a  kind  of  amateur  performance,  with  no  claim  to  the 
character  of  a  settled,  regular,  or  domiciliated  writer  for  the  green 
room — a  sort  of  volunteer  supernumerary — a  dramatic  writer  by 
"particular  desire,  and  for  this  night  only,"  as  they  say  in  the  bills 
of  the  play;  my  "line,"  as  you  well  know,  has  been  in  the  more 
rugged  paths  of  politics,  a  line  in  which  there  is  more  fact  than 
poetry,  more  feeling  than  fiction;  in  which,  to  be  sure,  there  are 
"exits  and  entrances" — where  the  "prompter's  whistle"  is  constantly 
heard  in  the  voice  of  the  people;  but  which,  in  our  popular  govern 
ment,  almost  disqualifies  us  for  the  more  soft  and  agreeable  trans 
lation  to  the  lofty  conceptions  of  tragedy,  the  pure  diction  of  genteel 
comedy,  or  the  wit,  gaiety,  and  humour  of  broad  farce. 

I  had  an  early  hankering  for  the  national  drama,  a  kind  of  juvenile 
patriotism,  which  burst  forth,  for  the  first  time,  in  a  few  sorry 
doggerels  in  the  form  of  a  prologue  to  a  play,  which  a  Thespian  com 
pany,  of  which  I  was  a  member,  produced  in  the  South-Street 
Theatre — the  old  American  Theatre  in  Philadelphia.  The  idea  was 
probably  suggested  by  the  sign  of  the  Federal  Convention  at  the 
tavern  opposite  the  theatre.  You,  no  doubt,  remember  the  picture 
and  the  motto:  an  excellent  piece  of  painting  of  the  kind,  represent 
ing  a  group  of  venerable  personages  engaged  in  public  discussions, 
with  the  following  distich: 

"These  thirty-eight  great  men  have  signed  a  powerful  deed, 
That  better  times,  to  us,  shall  very  soon  succeed." 

The  sign  must  have  been  painted  soon  after  the  adoption  of  the 
Federation  Constitution,  and  I  remember  to  have  stood  "many  a 
time  and  oft,"  gazing,  when  a  boy,  at  the  assembled  patriots,  par 
ticularly  the  venerable  head  and  spectacles  of  Dr.  Franklin,  always 
in  conspicuous  relief.  In  our  Thespian  corps,  the  honour  of  cutting 
the  plays,  substituting  new  passages,  casting  parts,  and  writing 
couplets  at  the  exits,  was  divided  between  myself  and  a  fellow  of 
infinite  wit  and  humour,  by  the  name  of  Helmbold;  who  subse 
quently  became  the  editor  of  a  scandalous  little  paper,  called  The 
Tickler:  He  was  a  rare  rascal,  perpetrated  all  kind  of  calumnies, 
was  constantly  mulcted  in  fines,  sometimes  imprisoned,  was  full  of 
faults,  which  were  forgotten  in  his  conversational  qualities  and  dry 
sallies  of  genuine  wit,  particularly  his  Dutch  stories.  After  years  of 
singular  vicissitudes,  Helmbold  joined  the  army  as  a  common 
soldier,  fought  bravely  during  the  late  war,  obtained  a  commission, 
and  died.  Our  little  company  soon  dwindled  away;  the  expenses 
were  too  heavy  for  our  pockets;  our  writings  and  performances  were 


634  Representative  Plays 

sufficiently  wretched,  but  as  the  audience  was  admitted  without  cost, 
they  were  too  polite  to  express  any  disapprobation.  We  recorded 
all  our  doings  in  a  little  weekly  paper,  published,  I  believe,  by  Jemmy 
Riddle,  at  the  corner  of  Chestnut  and  Third-Street,  opposite  the 
tavern  kept  by  that  sturdy  old  democrat,  Israel  Israel. 

From  a  boy,  I  was  a  regular  attendant  of  the  Chestnut-Street 
Theatre,  during  the  management  of  Wignell  and  Reinagle,  and  made 
great  efforts  to  compass  the  purchase  of  a  season  ticket,  which  I 
obtained  generally  of  the  treasurer,  George  Davis,  for  eighteen 
dollars.  Our  habits  through  life  are  frequently  governed  and 
directed  by  our  early  steps.  I  seldom  missed  a  night;  and  always 
retired  to  bed,  after  witnessing  a  good  play,  gratified  and  improved: 
and  thus,  probably,  escaped  the  haunts  of  taverns,  and  the  pursuits 
of  depraved  pleasures,  which  too  frequently  allure  and  destroy  our 
young  men;  hence  I  was  always  the  firm  friend  of  the  drama,  and 
had  an  undoubted  right  to  oppose  my  example  through  life  to  the 
horror  and  hostility  expressed  by  sectarians  to  plays  and  play-houses 
generally.  Independent  of  several  of  your  plays  which  had  obtained 
possession  of  the  stage,  and  were  duly  incorporated  in  the  legitimate 
drama,  the  first  call  to  support  the  productions  of  a  fellow  townsman, 
was,  I  think,  Barker's  opera  of  The  Indian  Princess.  Charles  Inger- 
soll  had  previously  written  a  tragedy,  a  very  able  production  for  a 
very  young  man,  which  was  supported  by  all  the  "good  society;" 
but  Barker,  who  was  "one  of  us,"  an  amiable  and  intelligent  young 
fellow,  who  owed  nothing  to  hereditary  rank,  though  his  father  was 
a  Whig,  and  a  soldier  of  the  Revolution,  was  in  reality  a  fine  spirited 
poet,  a  patriotic  ode  writer,  and  finally  a  gallant  soldier  of  the  late 
war.  The  managers  gave  Barker  an  excellent  chance  with  all  his 
plays,  and  he  had  merit  and  popularity  to  give  them  in  return  full 
houses. 

About  this  time,  I  ventured  to  attempt  a  little  melo-drama,  under 
the  title  of  "The  Fortress  of  Sorrento"  [1808],  which,  not  having 
money  enough  to  pay  for  printing,  nor  sufficient  influence  to  have 
acted,  I  thrust  the  manuscript  in  my  pocket,  and,  having  occasion 
to  visit  New- York,  I  called  in  at  David  Longworth's  Dramatic 
Repository  one  day,  spoke  of  the  little  piece,  and  struck  a  bargain 
with  him,  by  giving  him  the  manuscript  in  return  for  a  copy  of  every 
play  he  had  published,  which  at  once  furnished  me  with  a  tolerably 
large  dramatic  collection.  I  believe  the  play  never  was  performed, 
and  I  was  almost  ashamed  to  own  it;  but  it  was  my  first  regular 
attempt  at  dramatic  composition. 

In  the  year  1812,  while  in  Charleston,  Mr.  Young  requested  me 
to  write  a  piece  for  his  wife's  benefit.  You  remember  her,  no  doubt; 
remarkable  as  she  was  for  her  personal  beauty  and  amiable  deport 
ment,  it  would  have  been  very  ungallant  to  have  refused,  particularly 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  635 

as  he  requested  that  it  should  be  a  "breeches  part,"  to  use  a  green 
room  term,  though  she  was  equally  attractive  in  every  character. 
Poor  Mrs.  Young!  she  died  last  year  in  Philadelphia.  When  she 
first  arrived  in  New-  York,  from  London,  it  was  difficult  to  conceive 
a  more  perfect  beauty;  her  complexion  was  of  dazzling  whiteness, 
her  golden  hair  and  ruddy  complexion,  figure  somewhat  embonpoint, 
and  graceful  carriage,  made  her  a  great  favourite.  I  soon  produced 
the  little  piece,  which  was  called  "Paul  and  Alexis;  or,  the  Orphans 
of  the  Rhine."  I  was,  at  that  period,  a  very  active  politician,  and 
my  political  opponents  did  me  the  honour  to  go  to  the  theatre  the 
night  it  was  performed,  for  the  purpose  of  hissing  it,  which  was  not 
attempted  until  the  curtain  fell,  and  the  piece  was  successful.  After 
three  years'  absence  in  Europe  and  Africa,  I  saw  the  same  piece 
performed  at  the  Park,  under  the  title  of  "The  Wandering  Boys,"1 
which  even  now  holds  possession  of  the  stage.  It  seems  Mr.  Young 
sent  the  manuscript  to  London,  where  the  title  was  changed,  and  the 
bantling  cut  up,  altered,  and  considerably  improved. 

About  this  time,  John  Miller,  the  Arherican  bookseller  in  London, 
paid  us  a  visit.  Among  the  passengers  in  the  same  ship  was  a  fine 
English  girl  of  great  talent  and  promise,  Miss  Leesugg,  afterwards 
Mrs.  Hackett.  She  was  engaged  at  the  Park  as  a  singer,  and  Phillips, 
who  was  here  about  the  same  period  fulfilling  a  most  successful 
engagement,  was  decided  and  unqualified  in  his  admiration  of  her 
talent.  Every  one  took  an  interest  in  her  success:  she  was  gay, 
kind-hearted,  and  popular,  always  in  excellent  spirits,  and  always 
perfect.  Anxious  for  her  success,  I  ventured  to  write  a  play  for  her 
benefit,  and  in  three  days  finished  the  patriotic  piece  of  "She  Would 
be  a  Soldier;  or,  the  Battle  of  Chippewa,"2  which,  I  was  happy  to 
find,  produced  her  an  excellent  house.  Mrs.  Hackett  retired  from 
the  stage  after  her  marriage,  and  lost  six  or  seven  years  of  profitable 
and  unrivalled  engagement.3 

After  this  play,  I  became  in  a  manner  domiciliated  in  the  green 
room.  My  friends,  Price  and  Simpson,  who  had  always  been  ex 
ceedingly  kind  and  liberal,  allowed  me  to  stray  about  the  premises 
like  one  of  the  family,  and,  always  anxious  for  their  success,  I  ven- 

1  John  Ken-  wrote  "The  Wandering  Boys;  or,  The  Castle  of  <pjival"  (1823), 
which  Dr.  Atkinson  believes  was  taken  from  the  same  French  source  as  Noah's 


z  She  Would  Be  A  Soldier,/or  the/Plains  of  Chippewa;/An  Historical  Drama,/In 
Three  Acts./By  M.  M.  Noah./Performed  for  the  first  time  on  the  aist/of  June,  1819.' 
New-  York  i/Published  at  Longworth's  Dramatic  Repository,  /Shakspeare  Gallery./ 
G.  L.  Birch  &  Co.  Printers./i8ip./[At  one  time,  Edwin  Forrest  played  the  Indian 
in  this  piece.] 

3  Catherine  Leesugg  married  James  H.  Hackett,  the  American  actor,  in  1819. 
As  early  as  1805,  some  critics  in  England  spoke  of  her  as  the  Infant  Roscius.  Of 
her,  the  newspaper  versifier  proclaimed: 

"There's  sweet  Miss  Leesugg  —  by-the-by,  she's  not  pretty, 
She's  a  little  too  large,  and  has  not  too  much  grace, 
Yet  there's  something  about  her  so  witching  and  witty, 
'Tis  pleasure  to  gaze  on  her  good-humoured  face." 


636  Representative  Plays 

tured  upon  another  attempt  for  a  holy-day  occasion,  and  produced 
"Marion;  or,  the  Hero  of  Lake  George."  It  was  played  on  the  25th 
of  November,  Evacuation  day  [1821],  and  I  bustled  about  among 
my  military  friends,  to  raise  a  party  in  support  of  a  military  play, 
and  what  with  generals,  staff-officers,  rank  and  file,  the  Park  Theatre 
was  so  crammed,  that  not  a  word  of  the  play  was  heard,  which  was 
a  very  fortunate  affair  for  the  author.  The  managers  presented  me 
with  a  pair  of  handsome  silver  pitchers,  which  I  still  retain  as  a 
memento  of  their  good-will  and  friendly  consideration.  You  must 
bear  in  mind  that  while  I  was  thus  employed  in  occasional  attempts 
at  play-writing,  I  was  engaged  in  editing  a  daily  journal,  and  in  all 
the  fierce  contests  of  political  strife:  I  had,  therefore,  but  little  time 
to  devote  to  all  that  study  and  reflection  so  essential  to  the  success 
of  dramatic  composition. 

My  next  piece,  I  believe,  was  written  for  the  benefit  of  a  relative 
and  friend,  who  wanted  something  to  bring  a  house;  and  as  the 
struggle  for  liberty  in  Greece  was  at  that  period  the  prevailing  excite 
ment,  I  finished  the  melodrama  of  the  Grecian  Captive,  which  was 
brought  out  with  all  the  advantages  of  good  scenery  and  music 
[June  17,  1822].  As  a  "good  house"  was  of  more  consequence  to 
the  actor  than  fame  to  the  author,  it  was  resolved  that  the  hero  of 
the  piece  should  make  his  appearance  on  an  elephant,  and  the 
heroine  on  a  camel,  which  were  procured  from  a  neighbouring 
menagerie,  and  the  tout  ensemble  was  sufficiently  imposing,  only  it 
happened  that  the  huge  elephant,  in  shaking  his  skin,  so  rocked  the 
castle  on  his  back,  that  the  Grecian  general  nearly  lost  his  balance, 
and  was  in  imminent  danger  of  coming  down  from  his  "high  estate," 
to  the  infinite  merriment  of  the  audience.  On  this  occasion,  to  use 
another  significant  phrase,  a  "gag"  was  hit  upon  of  a  new  character 
altogether.  The  play  was  printed,  and  each  auditor  was  presented 
with  a  copy  gratis,  as  he  entered  the  house.  Figure  to  yourself  a 
thousand  people  in  a  theatre,  each  with  a  book  of  the  play  in  hand — 
imagine  the  turning  over  a  thousand  leaves  simultaneously,  the  buzz 
and  fluttering  it  produced,  and  you  will  readily  believe  that  the 
actors  entirely  forgot  their  parts,  and  even  the  equanimity  of  the 
elephant  and  camel  were  essentially  disturbed. 

My  last  appearance,  as  a  dramatic  writer,  was  in  another  national 
piece,  called  "The  Siege  of  Tripoli,"  which  the  managers  persuaded 
me  to  bring  out  for  my  own  benefit,  being  my  first  attempt  to  derive 
any  profit  from  dramatic  efforts.  The  piece  was  elegantly  got  up — 
the  house  crowded  with  beauty  and  fashion — everything  went  off 
in  the  happiest  manner;  when,  a  short  time  after  the  audience  had 
retired,  the  Park  Theatre  was  discovered  to  be  on  fire,  and  in  a  short 
time  was  a  heap  of  ruins.  This  conflagration  burnt  out  all  my 
dramatic  fire  and  energy,  since  which  I  have  been,  as  you  well  know, 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  637 

peaceably  employed  in  settling  the  affairs  of  the  nations,  and  mildly 
engaged  in  the  political  differences  and  disagreements  which  are  so 
fruitful  in  our  great  state. 

I  still,  however,  retain  a  warm  interest  for  the  success  of  the 
drama,  and  all  who  are  entitled  to  success  engaged  in  sustaining  it, 
and  to  none  greater  than  to  yourself,  who  have  done  more,  in  actual 
labour  and  successful  efforts,  than  any  man  in  America.  That  you 
may  realize  all  you  have  promised  yourself,  and  all  that  you  are 
richly  entitled  to,  is  the  sincere  wish  of 

Dear  sir, 

Your  friend  and  servant, 

M.  M.  NOAH. 
Wm.  Dunlap,  Esq. 


SHE  YTOTJLD  *E  A  SOLD1EU, 

OR  THE 

PLAINS  OF  CHIPPEWA ; 

AX  HISTORICAL  DRAMA, 

IN  THREE  ACTS. 

BY  M.  M.  NOAH. 


PERFORMED  FOR  THE  FIRST  TIME  ON  THE  2lST 
OF  JUNE,  1819. 


NEW- YORK  : 

Published  at  Longworth'a  Dramatic  Repository, 
Sbakspeare  Gallery. 


C.  L.  Birch  fcf  Co.  Printers. 
1819. 


FAC-SIMILE  TITLE-PAGE  TO  1819  EDITION 


PREFACE 

The  following  dramatic  bagatelle  was  written  in  a  few  days,  and 
its  reception,  under  every  circumstance,  far  exceeded  its  merits. 
I  had  no  idea  of  printing  it,  until  urged  to  do  so  by  some  friends 
connected  with  theatres,  who,  probably,  were  desirous  of  using 
it  without  incurring  the  expense  of  transcribing  from  the  original 
manuscript.  Writing  plays  is  not  my  "vocation;"  and  even  if  the 
mania  was  to  seize  me,  I  should  have  to  contend  with  powerful 
obstacles,  and  very  stubborn  prejudices;  to  be  sure,  these,  in 
time,  might  be  removed,  but  I  have  no  idea  of  being  the  first  to 
descend  into  the  arena,  and  become  a  gladiator  for  the  American 
Drama.  These  prejudices  against  native  productions,  however 
they  may  be  deplored  as  impugning  native  genius,  are  neverthe 
less  very  natural.  An  American  audience,  I  have  no  doubt, 
would  be  highly  pleased  with  an  American  play,  if,  the  perform 
ance  afforded  as  much  gratification  as  a  good  English  one ;  but 
they  pay  their  money  to  be  pleased,  and  if  we  cannot  afford 
pleasure,  we  have  no  prescriptive  right  to  ask  for  approbation. 
In  England,  writing  of  plays  is  a  profession,  by  which  much 
money  is  made  if  the  plays  succeed;  hence  a  dramatic  author 
goes  to  work,  secundum  artem. — He  employs  all  his  faculties,  ex 
hausts  all  his  resources,  devotes  his  whole  time,  capacity  and  in 
genuity  to  the  work  in  hand ;  the  hope  of  reward  stimulates  him 
— the  love  of  fame  urges  him  on — the  opposition  of  rivals  ani 
mates  his  exertions — and  the  expectation  of  applause  sweetens 
his  labours — and  yet,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  he  fails.  Mr.  Dunlap, 
of  this  city,  has  written  volumes  of  plays,  and  written  well, 
"excellent  well,"  but  he  made  nothing;  nay,  he  hardly  obtained 
that  civic  wreath  which  he  fairly  earned.  Barker,  of  Phila 
delphia,  whose  muse  is  the  most  delicate  and  enticing,  has  hung 
up  his  harp,  which,  I  dare  say,  is  covered  with  dust  and  cobwebs; 
and  even  Harby,  of  Charleston,  whose  talents  are  of  the  finest 
order,  and  who  is  a  bold  yet  chaste  poet,  gained  but  little  profit 
and  applause  from  his  labours.  We  must  not  expect,  therefore, 
more  encouragement  for  the  American  Drama  than  may  be  suffi 
cient  to  urge  us  on.  We  will  succeed  in  time,  as  well  as  the 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  641 

English,  because  we  have  the  same  language,  and  equal  intellect; 
but  there  must  be  system  and  discipline  in  writing  plays — a 
knowledge  of  stage  effect — of  sound,  cadences,  fitness  of  time  and 
place,  interest  of  plot,  spirit  of  delineation,  nature,  poetry,  and  a 
hundred  et  ceteras,  which  are  required,  to  constitute  a  good  dra 
matic  poet,  who  cannot,  in  this  country,  and  while  occupied  in 
other  pursuits,  spring  up  over  night  like  asparagus,  or  be  watered 
and  put  in  the  sun,  like  a  geranium  in  a  flower  pot. 

I  wrote  this  play  in  order  to  promote  the  benefit  of  a  performer 
who  possesses  talent,  and  I  have  no  objections  to  write  another 
for  any  deserving  object.  New  plays,  in  this  country,  are  gener 
ally  performed,  for  the  first  time,  as  anonymous  productions:  I 
did  not  withhold  my  name  from  this,  because  I  knew  that  my 
friends  would  go  and  see  it  performed,  with  the  hope  of  being 
pleased,  and  my  opponents  would  go  with  other  motives,  so  that 
between  the  two  parties  a  good  house  would  be  the  result.  This 
was  actually  the  case,  and  two  performances  produced  nearly 
$2,400;  I  hope  this  may  encourage  Americans  of  more  talent  to 
attempt  something. 

National  plays  should  be  encouraged.  They  have  done  every 
thing  for  the 'British  nation,  and  can  do  much  for  us;  they  keep 
alive  the  recollection  of  important  events,  by  representing  them 
in  a  manner  at  once  natural  and  alluring.  We  have  a  fine  scope, 
and  abundant  materials  to  work  with,  and  a  noble  country  to 
justify  the  attempt.  The  "Battle  of  Chippewa"  was  selected, 
because  it  was  the  most  neat  and  spirited  battle  fought  during  the 
late  war,  and  I  wish  I  was  able  to  do  it  more  justice. 

N. 
New- York,  July,  1819. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS » 

GENERAL,  Mr.  Graham. 

JASPER,  Mr.  Robertson. 

LENOX,  Mr.  Pritchard. 

HON.  CAPTAIN  PENDRAGON,  Mr.  Simpson. 

JERRY,  Mr.  Barnes. 

LAROLE,  Mr.  Spiller. 

JENKINS,  Mr.  Johnson. 

INDIAN  CHIEF,  Mr.  Maywood. 

IST  OFFICER,  Mr.  Bancker. 

SOLDIER,  Mr.  Nexsen. 

WAITER,  Mr.  Oliff. 

JAILOR,  Mr.  Baldwin. 
Soldiers,  Peasants,  Indians,  &c. 

CHRISTINE,  Miss  Leesugg. 

ADELA,  Miss  Johnson. 

MAID,  Mrs.  Wheatley. 

Peasant  Women,  &c. 


1  In  Dr.  Atkinson's  copy  of  this  play,  the  following  cast  is  given:  as  a  note,  in 
the  handwriting  of  Henry  Wallack: 

PHILADELPHIA,  1819. 
GENERAL,  Hughes. 


JASPER, 

LENOX,  Darley,  John,  Jr. 

PENDRAGON,  Wood,  William. 

JERRY,  Jefferson,  Joseph. 

LAROLE,  Blissett,  Francis. 

CHIEF,  Wallack,  Henry. 

CHRISTINE,  Darley,  Mrs.  John  (Miss  E.  Westray). 

ADELA,  Wood,  Mrs.  Wm.  (Miss  J.  Westray). 


SHE  WOULD  BE  A  SOLDIER, 

or;  the 
PLAINS  OF  CHIPPEWA 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  A  Valley  with  a  neat  Cottage  on  the  right,  an  Arbour  on 
the  left,  and  picturesque  Mountains  at  a  distance. 

Enter  from  the  cottage,  JASPER  and  JENKINS. 

JENKINS.  And  so,  neighbour,  you  are  not  then  a  native  of  this 
village? 

JASPER.  I  am  not,  my  friend;  my  story  is  short,  and  you  shall 
hear  it.  It  was  my  luck,  call  it  bad  or  good,  to  be  born  in  France, 
in  the  town  of  Castlenaudary,  where  my  parents,  good  honest 
peasants,  cultivated  a  small  farm  on  the  borders  of  the  canal  of 
Midi.  I  was  useful,  though  young;  we  were  well  enough  to  live, 
and  I  received  from  the  parish  school  a  good  education,  was 
taught  to  love  my  country,  my  parents,  and  my  friends;  a 
happy  temper,  a  common  advantage  in  my  country,  made  all 
things  easy  to  me ;  I  never  looked  for  to-morrow  to  bring  me  more 
joy  than  I  experienced  to-day. 

JENKINS.  Pardon  my  curiosity,  friend  Jasper:  how  came  you 
to  leave  your  country,  when  neither  want  nor  misfortune  visited 
your  humble  dwelling? 

JASPER.  Novelty,  a  desire  for  change,  an  ardent  disposition  to 
visit  foreign  countries.  Passing  through  the  streets  of  Toulouse 
one  bright  morning  in  spring,  the  lively  drum  and  fife  broke  on 
my  ear,  as  I  was  counting  my  gains  from  a  day's  marketing. 
A  company  of  soldiers  neatly  dressed,  with  white  cockades, 
passed  me  with  a  brisk  step ;  I  followed  them  through  instinct — 
the  sergeant  informed  me  that  they  were  on  their  way  to  Bor 
deaux,  from  thence  to  embark  for  America,  to  aid  the  cause  of 
liberty  in  the  new  world,  and  were  commanded  by  the  Marquis 
de  la  Fayette.  That  name  was  familiar  to  me;  La  Fayette  was  a 
patriot — I  felt  like  a  patriot,  and  joined  the  ranks  immediately. 

JENKINS.   Well,  you  enlisted  and  left  your  country? 


644  Representative  Plays 

JASPER.  I  did.  We  had  a  boisterous  passage  to  America,  and 
endured  many  hardships  during  the  revolution.  I  was  wounded 
at  Yorktown,  which  long  disabled  me,  but  what  then?  I  served 
under  great  men,  and  for  a  great  cause;  I  saw  the  independence 
of  the  thirteen  states  acknowledged,  I  was  promoted  to  a  ser- 
geancy  by  the  great  Washington,  and  I  sheathed  my  sword,  with 
the  honest  pride  of  knowing,  that  I  had  aided  in  establishing  a 
powerful  and  happy  republic. 

JENKINS.  You  did  well,  honest  Jasper,  you  did  well;  and  now 
you  have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  your  country  still  free  and 
happy. 

JASPER.  I  have,  indeed.  When  the  army  was  disbanded,  I 
travelled  on  foot  to  explore  the  uncultivated  territory  which  I  had 
assisted  in  liberating.  I  purchased  a  piece  of  land  near  the  great 
lakes,  and  with  my  axe  levelled  the  mighty  oaks,  cleared  my 
meadows,  burnt  out  the  wolves  and  bears,  and  then  built  that 
cottage  there. 

JENKINS.  And  thus  became  a  settler  and  my  neighbour;  thanks 
to  the  drum  and  fife  and  the  white  cockade,  that  lured  you  from 
your  home. 

JASPER.  In  a  short  time,  Jenkins,  everything  flourished;  my 
cottage  was  neat,  my  cattle  thriving,  still  I  wanted  something — 
it  was  a  wife.  I  was  tired  of  a  solitary  life,  and  married  Kate, 
the  miller's  daughter;  you  knew  her. 

JENKINS.   Ay,  that  I  did ;  she  was  a  pretty  lass. 

JASPER.  She  was  a  good  wife — ever  cheerful  and  industrious, 
and  made  me  happy:  poor  Kate!  I  was  without  children  for 
several  years;  at  length  my  Christine  was  born,  and  I  have  en 
deavoured,  in  cultivating  her  mind,  and  advancing  her  happiness, 
to  console  myself  for  the  loss  of  her  mother. 

JENKINS.  Where  is  Christine?  where  is  your  daughter,  neigh 
bour  Jasper? 

JASPER.  She  left  the  cottage  early  this  morning  with  Lenox, 
to  climb  the  mountains  and  see  the  sun  rise;  it  is  time  for  them 
to  return  to  breakfast. 

JENKINS.   Who  is  this  Mr.  Lenox? 

JASPER.  An  honest  lieutenant  of  infantry,  with  a  gallant  spirit 
and  a  warm  heart.  He  was  wounded  at  Niagara,  and  one  stormy 
night,  he  presented  himself  at  our  cottage  door,  pale  and  hag 
gard.  His  arm  had  been  shattered  by  a  ball,  and  he  had  received 
a  flesh  wound  from  a  bayonet:  we  took  him  in — for  an  old  soldier 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  645 

never  closes  his  door  on  a  wounded  comrade — Christine  nursed 
him,  and  he  soon  recovered.  But  I  wish  they  were  here — it  is 
growing  late:  besides,  this  is  a  busy  day,  friend  Jenkins, 

JENKINS.   Ah,  how  so? 

JASPER.  You  know  Jerry  Mayflower,  the  wealthy  farmer; 
he  has  offered  to  marry  my  Christine.  Girls  must  not  remain 
single  if  they  can  get  husbands,  and  I  have  consented  to  the 
match,  and  he  will  be  here  to-day  to  claim  her  hand. 

JENKINS.  But  will  Christine  marry  Jerry?  She  has  been  too 
well  educated  for  the  honest  farmer. 

JASPER.  Oh,  she  may  make  a  few  wry  faces,  as  she  does  when 
swallowing  magnesia,  but  the  dose  will  go  down.  There  is  some 
credit  due  to  a  wife  who  improves  the  intellect  of  her  husband; 
aye,  and  there  is  some  pride  in  it  also.  Girls  should  marry.  Matri 
mony  is  like  an  old  oak;  age  gives  durability  to  the  trunk,  skill 
trims  the  branches,  and  affection  keeps  the  foliage  ever  green. 
But  come,  let  us  in.  QASPER  and  JENKINS  enter  the  cottage. 

Pastoral  Music. — LENOX  and  CHRISTINE  are  seen  winding  down 
the  mountains — his  left  arm  is  in  a  sling. 

CHRISTINE.  At  last  we  are  at  home. — O  my  breath  is  nearly 
gone.  You  soldiers  are  so  accustomed  to  marching  and  counter 
marching,  that  you  drag  me  over  hedge  and  briar,  like  an  empty 
baggage-wagon.  Look  at  my  arm,  young  Mars,  you've  made  it  as 
red  as  pink,  and  as  rough  as — then  my  hand— don't  attempt  to 
kiss  it,  you — wild  man  of  the  woods. 

LENOX.  Nay,  dear  Christine,  be  not  offended ;  if  I  have  passed 
rapidly  over  rocks  and  mountains,  it  is  because  you  were  with  me. 
My  heart  ever  feels  light  and  happy  when  I  am  permitted  to 
walk  with  you;  even  the  air  seems  newly  perfumed,  and  the 
birds  chaunt  more  melodiously;  and  see,  I  can  take  my  arm  out  of 
confinement — your  care  has  done  this;  your  voice  administered 
comfort,  and  your  eyes  affection.  What  do  I  not  owe  you? 

CHRISTINE.  Owe  me?  Nothing,  only  one  of  your  best  bows, 
and  your  prettiest  compliments.  But  I  do  suspect,  my  serious 
cavalier,  that  your  wounds  were  never  as  bad  as  you  would  have 
me  think.  Of  late  you  have  taken  your  recipes  with  so  much 
grace,  have  swallowed  so  many  bitter  tinctures  with  a  playful 
smile,  that  I  believe  you've  been  playing  the  invalid,  and  would 
make  me  your  nurse  for  life — O  sinner  as  you  are,  what  have  you 
to  say  for  yourself? 


646  Representative  Plays 

LENOX.  Why,  I  confess,  dear  Christine,  that  my  time  has 
passed  with  so  much  delight,  that  even  the  call  of  duty  will  find 
me  reluctant  to  quit  these  scenes,  so  dear  to  memory,  hospitality, 
and,  let  me  add,  to  love.  Be  serious,  then,  dear  Christine,  and  tell 
me  \vhat  I  have  to  hope ;  even  now  I  expect  orders  from  my  com 
manding  officer,  requiring  my  immediate  presence  at  the  camp; 
we  are  on  the  eve  of  a  battle — Speak ! 

CHRISTINE.  Why,  you  soldiers  are  such  fickle  game,  that  if  we 
once  entangle  you  in  the  net,  'tis  ten  to  one  but  the  sight  of  a  new 
face  will  be  sufficiently  tempting  to  break  the  mesh — you're  just 
as  true  as  the  smoke  of  your  cannon,  and  you  fly  off  at  the  sight 
of  novelty  in  petticoats,  like  one  of  your  Congreve  rockets — No, 
I  won't  love  a  soldier — that's  certain. 

LENOX.  Nay,  where  is  our  reward  then  for  deserving  well  of 
our  country?  Gratitude  may  wreath  a  chaplet  of  laurel,  but 
trust  me,  Christine,  it  withers  unless  consecrated  by  beauty. 

CHRISTINE.  Well,  that's  a  very  pretty  speech,  and  deserves 
one  of  my  best  courtesies.  Now  suppose  I  should  marry  you,  my 
"dear  ally  Croaker,"  I  shall  expect  to  see  myself  placed  on  the 
summit  of  a  baggage- wragon,  with  soldiers'  \vives  and  a  few  dear 
squalling  brats,  whose  musical  tones  drown  e'en  the  "squeaking 
of  the  wry-neck'd  fife;"  and  if  I  should  escape  from  the  enemy  at 
the  close  of  a  battle,  I  should  be  compelled  to  be  ever  ready,  and 
"pack  up  my  tatters  and  follow  the  drum." — No,  no,  I  can't 
think  of  it. 

LENOX.  Prithee,  be  serious,  dear  Christine,  your  gaiety  alarms 
me.  Can  you  permit  me  to  leave  you  without  a  sigh?  Can  I 
depart  from  that  dear  cottage  and  rush  to  battle  without  having 
the  assurance  that  there  is  a  heart  within  which  beats  in  unison 
with  mine?  a  heart  which  can  participate  in  my  glory,  and  sympa 
thize  in  my  misfortunes? 

CHRISTINE.  No — not  so,  Lenox;  your  glory  is  dear  to  me,  your 
happiness  my  anxious  wish.  I  have  seen  you  bear  pain  like  a  sol 
dier,  and  misfortune  like  a  man.  I  am  myself  a  soldier's  daughter, 
and  believe  me,  when  I  tell  you,  that  under  the  appearance  of 
gaiety,  my  spirits  are  deeply  depressed  at  your  approaching  de 
parture.  I  have  been  taught,  by  a  brave  father,  to  love  glory  when 
combined  with  virtue.  There  is  my  hand; — be  constant,  and  I 
am  ever  your  friend;  be  true,  and  you  shall  find  me  ever  faithful. 

LENOX.  Thanks — a  thousand  thanks,  beloved  Christine;  you 
have  removed  a  mountain  of  doubts  and  anxious  wishes  from  my 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  647 

heart:  I  did  hope  for  this  reward,  though  it  was  a  daring  one. 
Love  and  honour  must  now  inspire  me,  and  should  we  again  be 
triumphant  in  battle,  I  shall  return  to  claim  the  reward  of  con 
stancy — a  reward  dearer  than  thrones — the  heart  of  a  lovely  and 
virtuous  woman. 

CHRISTINE.  Enough,  dear  Lenox;  I  shall  never  doubt  your 
faith.  But  come,  let  us  in  to  breakfast — stay — my  knight  of  the 
rueful  countenance,  where  is  the  portrait  which  you  have  been 
sketching  of  me?  Let  me  look  at  your  progress. 

LENOX.    Tis  here.  [Gives  a  small  drawing  book. 

CHRISTINE.  [Opening  it.  ]  Heavens,  how  unlike !  Why  Lenox, 
you  were  dreaming  of  the  Venus  de  Medici  when  you  drew  this — 
Oh,  you  flatterer! 

LENOX.  Nay,  'tis  not  finished;  now  stand  there,  while  I  sketch 
the  drapery. — [Places  her  at  a  distance,  takes  out  a  pencil,  and 
works  at  the  drawing.  ] 

CHRISTINE.  Why,  what  a  statue  you  are  making  of  me.  Pray, 
why  not  make  a  picture  of  it  at  once?  Place  me  in  that  bower, 
with  a  lute  and  a  lap  dog,  sighing  for  your  return;  then  draw  a 
soldier  disguised  as  a  pilgrim,  leaning  on  his  staff,  and  his  cowl 
thrown  back;  let  thai;  pilgrim  resemble  thee,  and  then  let  the 
little  dog  bark,  and  I  fainting,  and  there's  a  subject  for  the  pencil 
and  pallet. 

LENOX.  Sing,  dear  Christine,  while  I  finish  the  drawing — it 
may  be  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  hear  you. 

CHRISTINE.  Oh,  do  not  say  so,  my  gloomy  cavalier;  a  soldier, 
and  despair? 

THE  KNIGHT  ERRANT. 

Written  by  the  late  Queen  of  Holland. 

It  was  Dunois,  the  young  and  brave,  was  bound  to  Palestine, 

But  first  he  made  his  orisons  before  St.  Mary's  shrine: 

And  grant,  immortal  Queen  of  Heav'n,  was  still  the  soldier's 

prayer, 
That  I  may  prove  the  bravest  knight,  and  love  the  fairest  fair. 

His  oath  of  honour  on  the  shrine  he  grav'd  it  with  his  sword, 
And  follow'd  to  the  Holy  Land  the  banner  of  his  Lord ; 
Where,  faithful  to  his  noble  vow,  his  war-cry  fill'd  the  air — 
Be  honour'd,  aye,  the  bravest  knight,  beloved  the  fairest  fair. 


648  Representative  Plays 

They  ow'd  the  conquest  to  his  arm,  and  then  his  liege  lord  said, 
The  heart  that  has  for  honour  beat  must  be  by  bliss  repaid: 
My  daughter  Isabel  and  thou  shall  be  a  wedded  pair, 
For  thou  art  bravest  of  the  brave,  she  fairest  of  the  fair. 

And  then  they  bound  the  holy  knot  before  St.  Mary's  shrine, 
Which  makes  a  paradise  on  earth  when  hearts  and  hands  com 
bine; 

And  every  lord  and  lady  bright  that  was  in  chapel  there, 
Cry'd,  Honour'd  be  the  bravest  knight,  belov'd  the  fairest  fair. 

LENOX.   There,  'tis  finished — how  do  you  like  it? 

CHRISTINE.  Why,  so,  so — if  you  wish  something  to  remind  you 
of  me,  it  will  do. 

LENOX.  No,  not  so ;  your  image  is  too  forcibly  impressed  here 
to  need  so  dull  a  monitor.  But  I  ask  it  to  reciprocate — wear  this 
for  my  sake  [Gives  a  miniature.  ],  and  think  of  him  who,  even  in 
the  battle's  rage,  will  not  forget  thee.  [Bugle  sounds  at  a  dis 
tance.]  Hark!  'tis  a  bugle  of  our  army.  [Enter  a  SOLDIER,  who 
delivers  a  letter  to  LENOX  and  retires — LENOX  opens  and  reads  it.  ] 

"The  enemy,  in  force,  has  thrown  up  entrenchments  near 
Chippewa;  if  your  wounds  will  permit,  join  your  corps  without 
delay — a  battle  is  unavoidable,  and  I  wish  you  to  share  the  glory 
of  a  victory.  You  have  been  promoted  as  an  aid  to  the  gelieral 
for  your  gallantry  in  the  last  affair.  It  gives  me  pleasure  to  be  the 
first  who  announces  this  grateful  reward — lose  not  a  moment. 
Your  friend, 

MANDEVILLE." 
I  must  be  gone  immediately. 

Enter  JASPER  and  JENKINS  from  the  cottage. 

JASPER.  Ah!  Lenox,  my  boy,  good  morning  to  you.  Why 
Christine,  you  have  had  a  long  ramble  with  the  invalid. 

CHRISTINE.  Lenox  leaves  us  immediately,  dear  father;  the 
army  is  on  the  march. 

JASPER.  Well,  he  goes  in  good  time,  and  may  success  attend 
him.  Ods  my  life,  when  I  was  young,  the  sound  of  the  drum  and 
fife  was  like  the  music  of  the  spheres,  and  the  noise  and  bustle 
of  a  battle  was  more  cheering  to  me,  than  "the  hunter's  horn  in 
the  morning."  You  will  not  forget  us,  Lenox,  will  you? 

LENOX.  Forget  ye?  Never — I  should  be  the  most  ungrateful 
of  men,  could  I  forget  that  endearing  attention  which  poured  oil 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  649 

into  my  wounds,  and  comforted  the  heart  of  a  desponding  and 
mutilated  soldier.  No,  Jasper,  no;  while  life  remains,  yourself 
and  daughter  shall  never  cease  to  live  in  my  grateful  remem 
brance.  [CHRISTINE  and  LENOX  enter  the  cottage. 

Pastoral  Music. — Peasants  are  seen  winding  down  the  mountains, 
headed  by  JERRY,  dressed  for  a  festive  occasion,  with  white  favours, 
nosegays,  &c. 

JERRY.  Here  I  am,  farmer  Jasper — come  to  claim  Miss  Crissy 
as  my  wife,  according  to  your  promise,  and  have  brought  all  my 
neighbours.  How  do  you  do? 

JASPER.  Well — quite  well — and  these  are  all  your  neighbours? 

JERRY.  Yes — there's  Bob  Short,  the  tanner;  Nick  Anvil,  the 
blacksmith ;  Patty,  the  weaver's  daughter — and  the  rest  of  'em ; 
come  here,  Patty,  make  a  curtchey  to  the  old  soger — [PATTY 
comes  forward.} — a  pretty  girl!  I  could  have  had  her,  but  she 
wanted  edication — she  wanted  the  airs  and  graces,  as  our  school 
master  says. 

JASPER.  Well,  farmer,  you  are  an  honest  man,  but  I  fear  my 
Christine  will  not  approve  this  match,  commenced  without  her 
advice,  and  concluded  without  her  consent.  Then  her  education 
has  been  so  different  from — 

JERRY.  O,  fiddle-de-dee,  I  don't  mind  how  larned  she  is,  so 
much  the  better — she  can  teach  me  to  parlyvoo,  and  dance  solos 
and  duets,  and  such  elegant  things,  when  I've  done  ploughing. 

JASPER.    But  I'm  not  sure  that  she  will  like  you. 

JERRY.  Not  like  me?  Come,  that's  a  good  one;  only  look  at 
my  movements — why  she  can't  resist  me.  I'm  the  boy  for  a  race, 
for  an  apple-paring  or  quilting  frolic — fight  a  cock,  hunt  an  opos 
sum,  or  snare  a  partridge  with  any  one. — Then  I'm  a  squire,  and 
a  county  judge,  and  a  brevet  ossifer  in  the  militia  besides;  and  a 
devil  of  a  fellow  at  an  election  to  boot.  Not  have  me?  damme, 
that's  an  insult.  Besides,  sergeant  Jasper,  I've  been  to  the  wars 
since  I've  seen  ye — got  experience,  laurels  and  lilies,  and  all 
them  there  things. 

JASPER.    Indeed! 

JERRY.  Yes — sarved  a  campaign,  and  was  at  the  battle  of 
Queenstown.  What  do  you  think  of  that? 

JASPER.   And  did  you  share  in  the  glory  of  that  spirited  battle? 

JERRY.  O  yes,  I  shared  in  all  the  glory — that  is — I  didn't  fight. 
I'll  tell  you  how  it  was:  I  marched  at  the  head  of  my  village 


650  Representative  Plays 

sogers,  straight  as  the  peacock  in  my  farm  yard,  and  I  had  some 
of  the  finest  lads  in  our  county,  with  rifles — well,  we  march'd  and 
camp'd,  and  camp'd  and  march'd,  and  were  as  merry  as  grigs  un 
til  we  arrived  at  the  river:  half  the  troops  had  cross'd  and  were 
fighting  away  like  young  devils:  ods  life,  what  a  smoke!  what  a 
popping  of  small  arms,  and  roaring  of  big  ones!  and  what  a  power 
of  red  coats ! 

JASPER.  Well,  and  you  panted  to  be  at  them?  clubb'd  your 
rifles,  and  dashed  over? 

JERRY.  Oh  no,  I  didn't — I  was  afear'd  that  in  such  a  crowd, 
nobody  would  see  how  I  fought,  so  I  didn't  cross  at  all.  Besides, 
some  one  said,  it  were  contrary  to  law  and  the  constitution,  to  go 
into  the  enemy's  country,  but  if  they  com'd  into  our  country,  it 
were  perfectly  lawful  to  flog  'em. 

JASPER.   And  you  did  not  cross? 

JERRY.  Oh  no,  I  stood  still  and  look'd  on;  it  were  contrary  to 
the  constitution  of  my  country,  and  my  own  constitution  to  boot 
— so  I  took  my  post  out  of  good  gun  shot,  and  felt  no  more  fear 
nor  you  do  now. 

JASPER.  No  doubt.  Admirable  sophistry,  that  can  shield 
cowards  and  traitors,  under  a  mistaken  principle  of  civil  govern 
ment!  I've  heard  of  those  scruples,  which  your  division  felt  when 
in  sight  of  the  enemy.  Was  that  a  time  to  talk  of  constitutions — 
when  part  of  our  gallant  army  was  engaged  with  unequal  num 
bers?  Could  you  calmly  behold  your  fellow  citizens  falling  on  all 
sides,  and  not  avenge  their  death?  Could  you,  with  arms  in  your 
hands,  the  enemy  in  view,  with  the  roar  of  cannon  thundering  on 
your  ear,  and  the  flag  of  your  country  waving  amidst  fire  and 
smoke — could  you  find  a  moment  to  think  of  constitutions? 
Was  that  a  time  to  pause  and  suffer  coward  scruples  to  unnerve 
the  arm  of  freemen? 

JERRY.  Bravo!  bravo!  sergeant  Jasper;  that's  a  very  fine 
speech — I'll  vote  for  you  for  our  assemblyman;  now  just  go  that 
over  again,  that  I  may  get  it  by  heart  for  our  next  town  meeting 
— blazing  flags — fiery  cannon — smoking  constitutions — 

JASPER.  I  pray  you  pardon  me.  I  am  an  old  soldier,  and  fought 
for  the  liberty  which  you  enjoy,  and,  therefore,  claim  some  privi 
lege  in  expressing  my  opinion.  But  come,  your  friends  are  idle, 
let  us  have  breakfast  before  our  cottage  door. — Ah,  Jerry,  my 
Crissy  would  make  a  fine  soldier's  wife:  do  you  know  that  I  have 
given  her  a  military  education? 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  651 

JERRY.   No,  surely — 

JASPER.  Aye,  she  can  crack  a  bottle  at  twelve  paces  with  a 
pistol. 

JERRY.  Crack  a  bottle!  Come,  that's  a  good  one;  I  can  crack 
a  bottle  too,  but  not  so  far  off. 

JASPER.  And  then  she  can  bring  down  a  buck,  at  any  dis 
tance. 

JERRY.  Bring  down  a  buck?  I  don't  like  that — can't  say  as 
how  I  like  my  wife  to  meddle  with  bucks.  Can  she  milk — knit 
garters — make  apple  butter  and  maple  sugar — dance  a  reel  after 
midnight,  and  ride  behind  her  husband  on  a  pony,  to  see  the 
trainings  of  our  sogers — that's  the  wife  for  my  money.  Oh,  here 
she  comes. 

Enter  CHRISTINE  and  LENOX  from  the  cottage. 

JASPER.  Christine,  here  is  farmer  Mayflower  and  his  friends, 
who  have  come  to  visit  our  cottage,  and  you  in  particular. 

CHRISTINE.  They  are  all  welcome.  Good  morning,  Jerry — 
how  is  it  with  you? 

JERRY.  Purely,  Miss  Crissy,  I'm  stout  and  hearty,  and  you 
look  as  pretty  and  as  rosy  as  a  field  of  pinks  on  a  sunshiny  morn 
ing. 

JASPER.  Come  here,  farmer — give  me  your  hand — Christine, 
yours — [Joins  them.] — there;  may  you  live  long  and  happy,  and 
my  blessings  ever  go  with  you. 

CHRISTINE.  [Aside  in  amazement.]  Heavens!  what  can  this 
mean?  [LENOX  is  agitated — pause — JASPER  and  group  retire — 
LENOX  remains  at  a  distance.  ] 

JERRY.  Why,  Miss  Crissy,  your  father  has  consented  that  I 
shall  marry  you,  and  I've  come  with  my  neighbours  to  have  a 
little  frolic,  and  carry  you  home  with  me. 

CHRISTINE.  And  am  I  of  so  little  moment  as  not  to  be  con 
sulted?  Am  I  thus  to  be  given  away  by  my  father  without  one 
anxious  question?  [With  decision.]  Farmer,  pardon  my  frank 
ness;  on  this  occasion,  sincerity  alone  is  required — I  do  not  like 
you,  I  will  not  marry  you — nay,  do  not  look  surprised.  I  am  a 
stranger  to  falsehood  and  dissimulation,  and  thus  end  at  once  all 
hopes  of  ever  becoming  my  husband. 

JERRY.  Why,  now,  Miss  Crissy,  that's  very  cruel  of  you — I 
always  had  a  sneaking  kindness  for  you,  and  when  your  father 
gave  his  consent,  I  didn't  dream  as  how  you  could  refuse  me. 


652  Representative  Plays 

CHRISTINE.  My  father  has  ever  found  me  dutiful  and  obedi 
ent,  but  when  he  bestows  my  hand,  without  knowing  whether  my 
heart  or  inclinations  accompany  it,  I  feel  myself  bound  to  consult 
my  own  happiness.  I  cannot  marry  you,  farmer. 

LENOX.  [Advancing.]  All  things  are  prepared,  and  I  am  now 
about  to  depart.  Christine,  farewell!  Friends,  good  fortune 
await  you!  [Aside.]  Dear  Christine,  remember  me.  [Exit hastily. 

JERRY.  Lack-a-daisy !  What  a  disappointment  to  me,  when  I 
had  put  my  house  in  such  nice  order — painted  my  walls — got  a 
new  chest  upon  chest — two  new  bed  quilts,  and  a  pair  of  pumps, 
and  had  the  pig-sty  and  dairy  whitewashed. — Hang  me,  after  all, 
I  believe,  she  is  only  a  little  shy.  Oh,  I  see  it  now,  she  only  wants  a 
little  coaxing — a  little  sparking  or  so — I've  a  great  mind  to  kiss 
her.  I  will,  too.  [Approaches  CHRISTINE,  who  stands  at  a  dis 
tance,  buried  in  deep  thought. 

CHRISTINE.  Begone — dare  not  touch  me!  Heavens,  am  I  re 
served  for  this  humiliation?  Could  my  father  be  so  cruel? 

JERRY.  Now,  Crissy,  don't  be  so  shy — you  know  you  like  me — 
you  know  you  said  t'  other  day,  when  I  were  out  training,  that  I 
held  up  my  head  more  like  a  soger  than  anybody  in  the  ranks; 
come  now,  let's  make  up;  you'll  always  find  me  a  dutiful  hus 
band,  and  if  I  ever  flog  you,  then  my  name's  not  Jerry. 

Enter  JASPER  from  the  cottage,  with  a  basket;  PEASANTS  following 
with  fruit. 

JASPER.  Come,  let  us  have  breakfast  in  the  open  air — help  me 
to  arrange  the  table. 

JERRY.   Breakfast!  Oh,  true,  I've  a  powerful  appetite.  [A ssists. 

CHRISTINE.  [Aside.]  What  is  to  be  done?  I  have  not  a  mo 
ment  to  lose;  my  father  is  stern  and  unyielding — I  know  his  tem 
per  too  well,  to  hope  that  my  entreaties  will  prevail  with  him — 
the  farmer  is  rich,  and  gold  is  a  powerful  tempter.  I  must  be  gone 
— follow  Lenox,  and  in  disguise,  to  avoid  this  hateful  match. 
I'll  in,  whilst  unobserved.  [Enters  the  cottage. 

JASPER.  Come,  sit  down,  farmer  and  neighbours;  and  you,  my 
pretty  lads  and  lasses,  let's  have  a  dance.  Ah,  here  is  a  foraging 
party.  [Enter  SOLDIERS. 

Party  dance — several  pastoral  and  fancy  dances — and  as  the  whole 
company  retires,  CHRISTINE  comes  from  the  cottage  with  cautious 
steps — she  is  dressed  in  a  frock  coat,  pantaloons  and  hat. 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  653 

CHRISTINE.   They  are  gone — now  to  escape.  Scenes  of  my 

infancy — of    many    a    happy    hour,    farewell!  Oh,    farewell, 

forever!  [Exit. 
JASPER  and  JERRY  return. 

JERRY.   She  refused  me  plumply. 

JASPER.    Impossible! 

JERRY.  No,  it's  quite  possible.  Farmer,  said  she,  I  will  not 
marry  you — and  hang  me  if  there's  any  joke  in  that. 

JASPER.  Refuse  an  honest  man?  A  wealthy  one,  too?  And 
one  whom  her  father  gives  to  her?  Trifling  girl !  Insensible  to  her 
happiness  and  interest.  What  objections  had  she  to  you,  farmer? 

JERRY.  Objections!  Oh,  none  in  the  world,  only  she  wouldn't 
marry  me;  she  didn't  seem  struck  at  all  with  my  person. 

JASPER.   Mere  coyness — maiden  bashfulness. 

JERRY.  So  I  thought,  sergeant  Jasper,  and  was  going  to  give 
her  a  little  kiss,  when  she  gave  me  such  a  look,  and  such  a  push, 
as  quite  astounded  me. 

JASPER.  I  will  seek  and  expostulate  with  the  stubborn  girl. 
Ah,  Jerry,  times  have  strangely  altered,  when  young  women 
choose  husbands  for  themselves,  with  as  much  ease  and  indif 
ference,  as  a  ribbon  for  their  bonnet.  [Enters  the  cottage. 

JERRY.  So  they  do — the  little  independent  creatures  as  they 
are — but  what  Miss  Crissy  could  see  in  me  to  refuse,  hang  me  if  I 
can  tell.  I'm  call'd  as  sprightly  a  fellow  as  any  in  our  county, 
and  up  to  everything — always  ready  for  fun,  and  perfectly  good- 
natured.  [Enter  JASPER  from  the  cottage,  agitated. 

JASPER.  She  is  nowhere  to  be  found — she  has  gone  off  and 
left  her  poor  old  father.  In  her  room,  I  found  these  lines  scrawled 
with  a  pencil:  "You  have  driven  your  daughter  from  you,  by 
urging  a  match  that  was  hateful  to  her.  Was  her  happiness  not 
worth  consulting?"  What's  to  be  done?  Where  has  she  gone? 
Ah,  a  light  breaks  in  upon  me — to  the  camp — to  the  camp! 

JERRY.  Oho!  I  smell  a  rat  too — she's  gone  after  Mr.  Lenox,  the 
infantry  ossifer.  Oh,  the  young  jade!  But  come  along, old  soger — 
get  your  hat  and  cane,  and  we'll  go  arter  her — I'm  a  magistrate, 
and  will  bring  her  back  by  a  habes  corpus.  [They  enter  the  cottage. 

SCENE  II.   A  Wood. 

Enter  CHRISTINE  in  haste,  looking  back  with  fear. 
CHRISTINE.   On,  on,  or  I  shall  be  pursued  and  o'ertaken — I 


654  Representative  Plays 

have  lost  my  way.    Ah,  yonder  is  the  camp — I  see  the  flags  and 
tents — a  short  time  and  I  shall  be  with  you,  dear  Lenox.     [Exit. 

Enter  JASPER,  JERRY  and  PEASANTS. 

JERRY.  We're  on  the  right  track,  farmer;  I  know  all  tracks — 
used  to  'em  when  I  hunt  'possums. 

JASPER.  Cruel  girl!  to  desert  her  old  father,  who  has  ever 
been  kind  and  affectionate. 

JERRY.  Cruel  girl!  to  desert  me,  who  intended  to  be  so  very 
affectionate,  if  he  had  given  me  a  chance. 

JASPER.  We  cannot  be  far  from  the  outposts,  let  us  continue 
our  search.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  A  Camp.  A  row  of  tents  in  the  rear  with  camp  flags  at 
equal  distances;  on  the  right  wing  is  a  neat  marquee,  and  directly 
opposite  to  it  another.  Sentinels  on  duty  at  each  marquee. 

Enter  from  the  marquee,  LENOX  and  ADELA. 

LENOX.  I  never  was  more  surprised!  just  when  I  had  brush'd 
up  my  arms,  and  prepared  to  meet  the  enemy,  who  should  I  find 
in  camp  but  you,  my  old  hoyden  scholar.  Why  Adela,  you  have 
grown  nearly  as  tall  as  a  grenadier,  and  as  pretty — zounds,  I 
would  kiss  you,  if  I  dare. 

ADELA.  I  am  delighted  to  see  you,  dear  Lenox;  you  are  still 
as  gay  and  amiable  as  when  you  taught  your  little  Adela  to  con 
jugate  verbs,  and  murder  French;  I  heard  of  your  gallantry  and 
wounds,  and  imagined  I  should  see  you  limping  on  crutches,  with 
a  green  patch  over  one  eye,  and  a  wreath  of  laurel  around  your 
head,  a  kind  of  limping,  one-eyed  cupid;  but  I  find  you  recovered 
from  your  wounds,  and  ready  for  new  ones,  my  soldier. 

LENOX.  Bravo!  the  little  skipping  girl,  who  was  once  so  full  of 
mischief,  has  grown  a  tall  and  beautiful  woman.  But  what 
brings  you  to  camp,  Adela?  What  have  you  to  do  with  "guns 
and  drums?  heaven  save  the  mark!" 

ADELA.  Why,  my  father  wrote  for  me,  expecting  that  the 
campaign  was  drawing  to  a  close;  but  scarcely  had  I  arrived 
here,  when  intelligence  reached  us  that  the  enemy,  in  force,  had 
occupied  a  position  near  Chippewa;  it  was  too  late  to  return,  so  I 
remained  to  see  a  little  skirmishing. 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  655 

LENOX.  And  are  you  prepared  to  endure  the  privations  of  a 
camp? 

ADELA.  Oh,  it  is  delightful !  it  is  something  out  of  the  common 
order  of  things,  something  new — such  echoing  of  bugles — glisten 
ing  of  fire-arms,  and  nodding  of  plumes — such  marchings  and 
countermarchings — and  such  pretty  officers  too,  Lenox;  but 
then  a  terrible  accident  happened  to  me  the  other  day. 

LENOX.  Aye,  what  was  it? 

ADELA.  Why  you  must  know,  that  I  accompanied  my  father, 
who  with  his  suite,  and  a  small  detachment,  went  out  on  a  re- 
connoitering  project. — Just  as  we  debouched  from  the  wood,  ac 
cording  to  the  military  phrase,  we  came  suddenly  and  unex 
pectedly  on  a  foraging  party  of  the  enemy,  who  began  to  fight 
and  retreat  at  the  same  time. 

LENOX.  Well? 

ADELA.  My  horse  happening  to  be  an  old  trooper,  the  moment 
the  bugles  sounded,  and  he  heard  the  prattle  of  the  small  arms, 
he  dashed  in  amongst  them,  and  there  was  I  screaming  in  a  most 
delightful  style,  which,  by  some,  must  have  been  mistaken  for  a 
war-whoop,  and  to  mend  the  matter,  a  very  polite  and  accom 
plished  Indian  took  aim  at  me  with  his  rifle,  and  actually  shot 
away  the  plume  from  my  hat,  which,  I  dare  say,  was  as  valuable 
a  prize  to  him  as  I  should  have  been. 

LENOX.   And  how  did  you  escape  from  your  perilous  situation? 

ADELA.  Oh,  I  soon  recovered  my  fright,  and  reined  in  my  old 
horse;  my  father  and  a  few  soldiers  cut  in  before  me,  and  covered 
my  retreat,  so  that  in  the  conclusion  of  this  little  affair,  I  gained 
a  feather  in  my  cap,  though  the  enemy  carried  off  the  plume; 
and  I  found  myself  at  last  on  the  field  of  battle,  as  cool  as  any 
hero  in  the  army. 

LENOX.  And  so,  my  lively  Adela,  you  have  been  fairly  intro 
duced  to  Mars  and  Bellona:  how  do  you  like  them? 

ADELA.  Prodigiously.  I  find,  after  all,  that  courage  is  some 
thing  like  a  cold  bath;  take  the  first  plunge,  and  all  is  over.  Lord, 
Lenox,  how  delightful  it  would  have  been,  had  I  been  armed  and 
fought  gallantly  in  that  affair;  my  name  would  have  been  immor 
talized  like  Joan  of  Arc's.  Congress  would  ha.ve  voted  me  a 
medal,  I  should  have  had  a  public  dinner  at  Tammany-Hall,  and 
his  honour  the  mayor  would  have  made  me  one  of  his  prettiest 
speeches,  in  presenting  me  with  the  freedom  of  the  great  city  in  a 
gold  box. 


656  Representative  Plays 

LENOX.  And  so,  then,  you  admire  a  military  life? 
ADELA.  Oh,  I'm  in  raptures  with  it!  I  am  a  perfect  female 
Quixote,  and  would  relinquish  a  thousand  dandy  beaux  for  one 
brave  fellow;  and,  therefore,  Lenox,  don't  be  surprised,  if  you 
should  see  me  going  about  from  tent  to  tent,  chaunting  the  old 
songs  of 

"Soldier,  soldier,  marry  me, 
With  your  fife  and  drum" 

CHRISTINE  suddenly  appears  in  the  background  and  surveys  the 
party  with  astonishment. 

CHRISTINE.  Heavens!  what  do  I  see?  Lenox,  and  with  a 
female  so  affectionately? 

LENOX.  Your  spirits  charm  me,  dear  Adela,  and  revive  those 
feelings  for  you,  that  time  has  impaired,  but  not  destroyed.  But 
come,  let  us  in  and  see  your  worthy  father. 

[Leads  her  into  the  tent  to  the  left. 

CHRISTINE.  Cruel,  unkind,  false  Lenox!  Are  these  your  vows 
of  constancy?  are  these  your  protestations  of  love?  Scarcely 
are  you  free  from  our  cottage,  when  your  vows  and  pledges  are. 
but  air.  Wretched  Christine!  what  will  become  of  you?  I  have 
deserted  my  father's  house  to  avoid  a  hateful  match,  and  seek 
the  protection  of  the  man  I  love;  he  is  false,  and  I  am  lost. 
What's  to  be  done?  Return  home  a  penitent,  and  meet  the  frowns 
of  my  father,  and  be  wedded  to  the  man  I  hate?  Never.  Seek  out 
Lenox,  and  upbraid  him  with  his  falsehood?  No,  pride  and 
wounded  honour  will  not  permit  me.  Let  him  go — he  is  a  wretch 
who  trifles  with  the  affections  of  a  woman.  I  care  not  what  be 
comes  of  me,  despair  is  all  that  I  have  left.  Ha!  a  thought  strikes 
me  with  the  lightning's  force — the  army — I  will  enlist — this  dis 
guise  is  favourable,  and  in  the  battle's  rage,  seek  that  death  which 
quickly  awaits  me — 'tis  resolved.  [CORPORAL  passes  over  the 
stage.]  Hist,  corporal. 

CORPORAL.  Well,  my  lad,  what  would  ye? 

CHRISTINE.  I  would  enlist,  good  corporal,  and  serve  my 
country. 

CORPORAL.    Enlist !  As  a  drummer  or  fifer,  I  suppose. 

CHRISTINE.   No;  in  the  ranks — and  though  small,  you  will 

find  me  capable.    Give  me  your  musket.     [CHRISTINE  takes  the 

musket,  shoulders,  presents,  and  goes  through  a  few  motions.  ] 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  657 

CORPORAL.  Well  done,  my  little  fellow;  you'll  do,  if  it's  only 
for  a  fugelman;  come  along  to  our  sergeant,  and  receive  the 
bounty.  [Exit. 

CHRISTINE.  Now,  Lenox,  now  am  I  fully  revenged  for  your 
cruel  desertion.  [Follows. 

End  of  the  First  Act. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.    York,  in  Upper  Canada;  a  Tavern  meanly  furnished. 
Enter  LAROLE,  in  pursuit  of  the  chambermaid. 

LAROLE.  Come  here,  you  littel  demoiselle — you  bootiful 
sauvage,  vy  you  run  vay  from  me — hay? 

MAID.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  alone,  mounsure,  you  officers' 
gentlemen  are  very  disagreeable  things. 

LAROLE.  Disagreeable?  ma  foi!  I  am  one  joli  garcon,  one 
pretti  batchelor;  disagreeable?  I  vill  tell  you,  ma  belle  grizette, 
I  am  maitre  de  mode,  I  give  de  lecons  for  dance,  to  speake  de 
English,  and  de  Frangaise  aussi ;  I  can  fence,  aha !  or  fight  de  duel, 
or  de  enemi,  je  suis  un  soldat. 

MAID.  Well,  if  you're  a  soldier,  you  have  no  business  to  be 
following  me  up  and  down  the  house  like  a  pet  lamb.  Why  don't 
you  go  to  camp? 

LAROLE.  Camp?  vat  is  de  camp?  Oho,  le  champ  de  bataille; 
I  shall  tell  you,  mademoiselle,  I  did  fight  at  the  bataille  de 
Vittoria,  com  un  diable,  like  littel  devil.  I  did  kill  beaucoup 
d'Anglais.  Mai  my  maitre,  le  capitain,  he  did  give  me  a  dam 
tump  on  my  head  wis  his  rapier,  and  did  knock  me  down  from  on 
top  of  my  horse,  and  make  a  me  von  prisonier. 

MAID.  Poor  fellow !  And  so,  mounsure,  you  were  made  prisoner? 

LAROLE.  Oui,  ven  I  could  not  run  avay,  begar  I  surrender 
like  von  brave  homme,  and  now  I  am  jentiman  to  capitain 
Pendragoon;  I  do  brus  his  coat,  poudre  his  hair,  and  pull  his 
corset  tight,  and  ven  he  was  order  to  come  to  Amerique,  and  fight 
wis  de  Yankee  Doodel,  begar  me  come  too.  I  arrive  ici,  I  am 
here,  to  make  a  littel  de  love  to  you. 

MAID.  Well  now,  once  for  all,  I  tell  you  not  to  be  following 
me;  I  don't  like  Frenchmen — I  can't  parly voo. 

LAROLE.  You  no  like  de  Frenchiman?  O  quell  barbare!  vy 
you  ave  von  abominable  gout,  mademoiselle,  von  shockin  taste. 


658  Representative  Plays 

I  shall  tell  you,  mademoiselle,  en  my  contree,  en  France,  de 
ladies  are  ver  fond  of  me.  O  beaucoup,  I  am  so  charmant — so 
aimable,  and  so  jentee,  I  have  three  five  sweetheart,  ami  de  cceur, 
mai  for  all  dat  I  do  love  you  ver  mush,  par  example. 

MAID.  Let  me  go!  [Bell  rings.]  There,  your  master  calls  you. 

[Exit. 

LAR.OLE.  Dam  de  littel  bell,  I  vill  not  come;  mon  maltre  he 
always  interrupt  me  ven  I  make  de  love  to  the  pretti  ladi,  he  be 
jealous,  begar  I  vill  not  come.  [Exit  opposite  side. 

Enter  CAPTAIN  PENDRAGON,  dressed  in  the  British  uniform,  but 

in  the  extreme  of  fashion — throws  himself  into  a  chair. 

PENDRAGON.  Oh,  curse  such  roads!  My  bones  are  making  their 
way  out  of  their  sockets — such  vile,  abominable,  detestable — 
Waiter! — If  my  friends  at  Castle  Joram  only  knew  the  excruciat 
ing  fatigues  which  I  am  undergoing  in  this  barbarous  land — Why, 
waiter! — or  if  his  highness  the  commander-in-chief  was  only 
sensible  of  my  great  sacrifices  to — Why,  waiter!  where  the  devil 
are  you? 

Enter  WAITER. 

WAITER.   Here  I  be,  sir. 

PENDRAGON.  Why  didn't  you  come  when  I  first  called?  Do 
you  think  I've  got  lungs  like  a  hunter?  I'm  fatigued  and  hungry. 
Get  me  an  anchovy,  a  toast,  and  a  bottle  of  old  port. 

WAITER.   A  what,  sir?  an  ancho — 

PENDRAGON.   Yes,  sir,  an  anchovy — small  ones — delicate. 

WAITER.  Why,  sir,  we  don't  know  what  these  are  in  this 
country. 

PENDRAGON.  The  devil  you  don't!  Then  pray,  sir,  what  have 
you  to  eat  in  this  damn'd  house  fit  for  a  gentleman? 

WAITER.  Why,  sir,  not  much — the  army  eats  us  out  of  house 
and  home.  We  have  some  very  excellent  fresh  bear  meat,  sir. 

PENDRAGON.  Bear  meat!  Why,  what  the  devil,  fellow,  do  you 
take  me  for  a  Chickasaw,  or  an  Esquimau?  Bear  meat!  the 
honourable  captain  Pendragon,  who  never  ate  anything  more 
gross  than  a  cutlet  at  Molly's  chop-house,  and  who  lived  on 
pigeons'  livers  at  Very's,  in  Paris,  offered  bear  meat  in  North 
America!  I'll  put  that  down  in  my  travels. 

WAITER.   Why,  sir,  it  is  considered  here  a  great  delicacy. 

PENDRAGON.  The  devil  it  is!  Then  pray,  sir,  what  are  your 
ordinary  fares,  if  bear's  meat  is  considered  a  delicacy? 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  659 

WAITER.  Why,  truly,  sir,  this  is  but  a  young  country,  and 
we  have  to  live  upon  what  we  can  catch.  Pray,  would  you  fancy 
some  'possum  fat  and  hominy? 

PENDRAGON.  Oh,  shocking!  begone,  fellow — you'll  throw  me 
into  a  fever  with  your  vile  bill  of  fare.  Get  me  a  cup  of  tea — 
mix  it,  hyson  and  souchong,  with  cream  and  muffins. 

WAITER.  We  can't  give  you  any  of  those  things,  sir. — How 
ever,  you  can  have  an  excellent  cup  of  sage  tea,  sweetened  with 
honey. 

PENDRAGON.  Sage  tea!  Why,  you  rascal,  do  you  intend  to 
throw  me  into  a  perspiration  by  way  of  curing  my  hunger?  or 
do  you  take  me  for  a  goose  or  a  duck,  that  you  intend  stuffing  me 
with  sage?  Begone,  get  out,  you  little  deformed  fellow!  [Exit 
WAITER.  ]  I  shall  perish  in  this  barbarous  land — bear  meat,  'pos 
sum  fat,  and  sage  tea!  O  dear  St.  James!  I  wish  I  was  snug  in 
my  old  quarters.  LaRole!  [Enter  LARoLE.]  Where  the  devil 
do  you  hide  yourself  in  this  damn'd  house?  Why,  I  shall  starve — 
there's  nothing  to  eat,  fit  for  a  gentleman. 

LAROLE.  Oui,  monsieur,  dis  is  von  damn  contree,  I  can  find 
nosing  to  eat.  I  did  look  into  all  de  pantri,  mai  parbleu,  I  find 
only  a  ver  pretti  demoiselle,  mai,  I  could  not  eat  her. 

PENDRAGON.  WTe  must  be  off  to  the  camp,  LaRole,  my  quar 
ters  there  will  be  infinitely  more  agreeable.  I  shall  get  the  blue 
devils  in  this  cursed  place. 

LAROLE.  Veil,  sair,  I  have  all  de  devils  ventre  bleu,  das  you 
can  imagine;  dere  is  no  politesse,  no  respect,  nosing  paid  to  me. 

PENDRAGON.    My  fit  of  the  blues  is  coming  on  me;  sing  me  a, 
song,  LaRole. 

LAROLE.  A  chanson?  Veil,  sair,  I  shall  sing  to  frighten  avay 
de  littel  blue  devil;  vill  you  I  shall  sing  de  English  or  de  Fran- 
gaise? 

PENDRAGON.  Oh,  English,  by  all  means — curse  your  foreign 
lingo. 

LAROLE.   Ahem !  Ahem !  you  shall  understand. 

Vat  is  dis  dull  town  to  me, 

Robin  Hadair? 

Vere  is  all  de  joys  on  earth,  dat 
Make  dis  town — 

[A  bugle  sounds  without. 
Ha!  what  is  dat?  who  de  devil  intrup  me  in  my  chanson? 


660  Representative  Plays 

INDIAN  CHIEF.  [Speaks  without.  ]  Have  them  all  ready,  with 
their  rifles  and  tomahawks  in  order;  [Enters  with  another 
INDIAN.]  and  you,  Coosewatchie,  tell  our  priests  to  take  their 
stand  on  yonder  hill,  and  as  my  warriors  pass  them,  examine 
whether  they  have  fire  in  their  eyes.  [Exit  INDIAN.  ]  How  now, 
who  have  we  here? 

PENDRAGON.  [Examining  him  with  his  glass.]  Where  the 
devil  did  this  character  come  from?  he's  one  of  the  fancy,  I 
suppose. 

INDIAN.   Who  and  what  are  you? 

PENDRAGON.  Who  am  I?  Why,  sir,  I  am  the  honourable  cap 
tain  Pendragon,  of  his  majesty's  guards,  formerly  of  the  buffs. 

INDIAN.  [Aside.]  The  officer  who  is  to  be  under  my  com 
mand.  Well  sir,  you  have  lately  arrived  from  across  the  great 
waters:  How  did  you  leave  my  father,  the  King  of  England? 

PENDRAGON.  How!  call  my  most  gracious  sovereign  your 
father?  Why,  sir,  you  are  the  most  familiar — impertinent — 
'sdeath!  I  shall  choke — What  the  devil  do  you  mean? 

INDIAN.  [Coolly.]  What  should  I  mean,  young  man,  but  to 
inquire  after  the  health  of  my  father,  who  commands  my  re 
spect,  who  has  honoured  me  with  his  favours,  and  in  whose  cause 
I  am  now  fighting. 

PENDRAGON.  Well,  sir,  if  you  have  the  honour  to  hold  a  com 
mission  from  his  majesty,  I  desire  that  you  will  speak  of  him  with 
proper  awe,  and  not  call  him  your  father,  but  your  gracious 
master. 

INDIAN.  Young  man,  the  Indian  warrior  knows  no  master 
but  the  Great  Spirit,  whose  voice  is  heard  in  thunder,  and  whose 
eye  is  seen  in  the  lightning's  flash;  free  as  air,  we  bow  the  knee  to 
no  man;  our  forests  are  our  home,  our  defence  is  our  arms,  our 
sustenance  the  deer  and  the  elk,  which  we  run  down.  White  men 
encroach  upon  our  borders,  and  drive  us  into  war;  we  raise  the 
tomahawk  against  your  enemies,  because  your  king  has  promised 
us  protection  and  supplies.  We  fight  for  freedom,  and  in  that 
cause,  the  great  king  and  the  poor  Indian  start  upon  equal  terms. 

PENDRAGON.  A  very  clever  spoken  fellow,  pon  honour;  I'll 
patronise  him. 

LAR.OLE.  Parbleu,  he  is  von  very  sensible  sauvage;  vill  you 
take  von  pinch  snuff? 

INDIAN.    Pshaw! 

LAR.OLE.    He  say  pshaw,  I  see  he  is  born  in  de  voods. 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  66 1 

PENDRAGON.  And  are  you  prepared  to  fan  these  Yankees? 
We  shall  flog  them  without  much  fatigue,  I  understand. 

INDIAN.  Not  so  fast,  young  soldier;  these  pale-faced  enemies 
of  ours  fight  with  obstinacy;  accustomed  to  a  hardy  life,  to 
liberty  and  laws,  they  are  not  willing  to  relinquish  those  blessings 
on  easy  terms;  if  we  conquer  them,  it  must  be  by  no  moderate 
exertions:  it  will  demand  force  and  cunning. 

PENDRAGON.  Oh,  dry  dogs,  I  suppose,  not  to  be  caught  nap 
ping;  well,  I'm  up  to  them,  we'll  fan  them  in  high  style;  the 
ragged  nabobs,  I  understand,  are  not  far  off,  and  our  troops  are 
in  fine  preservation. 

INDIAN.  True,  preparation  must  be  made  to  meet  them. 
You  are  under  my  orders. 

PENDRAGON.  The  devil  I  am ! 

INDIAN.  Aye,  sir;  your  general,  at  my  request,  has  ordered  you 
here  to  take  command  of  a  company  of  my  warriors;  but  you 
must  not  appear  in  that  dress:  change  it  quickly,  or  they  will  not 
be  commanded  by  you;  they  are  men,  and  fight  under  the  orders 
of  men. 

PENDRAGON.  Change  my  dress !  why  what  the  devil  do  you 
mean,  sir? 

INDIAN.  Mean?  that  you  should  appear  in  the  ranks  like 
a  warrior,  and  not  like  a  rabbit  trussed  for  dressing — off  with 
these  garments,  which  give  neither  pleasure  to  the  eye  nor  ease  to 
the  limbs — put  on  moccasins,  wrap  a  blanket  around  you,  put 
rings  through  your  nose  and  ears,  feathers  in  your  head,  and 
paint  yourself  like  a  soldier,  with  vermilion. 

PENDRAGON.  Why,  this  is  the  most  impertinent  and  presuming 
savage  in  the  wilds  of  North  America.  Harkee,  sir,  I'd  have  you 
to  know,  that  I  am  a  man  of  fashion,  and  one  of  the  fancy — for 
merly  of  the  buffs,  nephew  of  a  peer  of  the  realm,  and  will.be  a 
member  of  parliament,  in  time ;  an  officer  of  great  merit  and  great 
services,  Mr. — Red  Jacket.  Paint  my  face,  and  fight  without 
clothes?  I  desire,  sir,  that  you  will  please  to  take  notice,  that  I 
fought  at  Badahoz  with  the  immortal  Wellington,  and  had  the 
honour  to  be  wounded,  and  promoted,  ancl  had  a  medal  for  my 
services  in  that  affair,  Mr. — Split-log.  Put  rings  in  my  nose? 
a  man  of  taste,  and  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  Bond-street,  the  very 
mirror  of  fashion  and  elegance?  Sir,  I  beg  you  to  observe,  that 
I  am  not  to  be  treated  in  this  manner — I  shall  resent  this  insult. 
Damme,  I  shall  report  you  to  the  commander-in-chief  at  the 


662  Representative  Plays 

Horse  Guards,  and  have  you  courtmartialled  for  unfashionable 
deportment — Mr. — Walk-in-the- Water. 

INDIAN.  Come,  come,  sir,  enough  of  this  trifling;  I  do  not 
understand  it;  you  have  heard  my  orders — obey  them,  or,  after 
the  battle,  I'll  roast  you  before  a  slow  fire!  [Exit. 

LAROLE.  O  le  barbare!  O  de  dam  sauvage!  dis  is  de  most 
impertinent  dog  in  de  vorld.  Roast  before  de  fire!  Parbleu, 
mon  maitre,  ve  are  not  de  littel  pig. 

PENDRAGON.  I'm  horrified!  lost  in  amazement!  but  I'll  resent 
it.  Damme,  I'll  caricature  him. 

LAROLE.  Oh,  I  vish  I  vas  fight  encore  at  Saragossa,  vis  mi  lor 
Villainton;  par  example,  I  did  get  some  hard  tumps,  mai  I  did 
get  plenti  to  eat;  but  ici  I  ave  nosing  but  de  little  bear  to  mange. 

PENDRAGON.  Come  along — courage,  LaRole.  We'll  fan  the 
Yankee  Doodles  in  our  best  style,  and  then  get  a  furlough,  and  be 
off  to  White-Hall,  and  the  rings  in  our  noses  will  afford  anecdotes 
for  the  bon-ton  for  a  whole  year.  Allons.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.    The  American  Camp  at  daybreak.     The  drum  and 
fife  plays  the  reveille.     Sentinels  on  duty  before  the  tents. 

LENOX  enters  from  the  tent  on  the  right,  GENERAL  and  ADELA 
from  the  left. 

LENOX.  Good  morning,  general;  you  are  "stirring  with  the 
lark" — and  you  also,  Adela. 

GENERAL.  The  times  require  the  utmost  vigilance,  Lenox; 
the  enemy  cannot  escape  a  battle  now,  and  we  must  be  prepared 
at  all  points  to  meet  him.  Decision  and  energy  cannot  fail  to 
promote  success. 

ADELA.  And  what  is  to  become  of  me,  father,  in  the  battle? 
Am  I  to  ride  the  old  trooper  again,  and  run  the  risk  of  having  the 
tip  of  my  nose  carried  away  by  a  musket  ball,  and  left  on  the 
field  of  battle  in  all  my  glory? 

GENERAL.  You  shall  be  taken  care  of,  dear  Adela;  we  will 
place  you  in  the  rear,  among  the  baggage-wagons. 

ADELA.  And  if  they  should  be  captured,  I  become  also  a  pris 
oner,  and  probably  a  prize  to  some  gallant  Indian  chief,  who  will 
make  me  his  squaw,  and  teach  me  to  kill  deer.  O  delightful 
thought!  [Bugles  sound. 

GENERAL.  The   troops  are   under   arms,    and   approaching. 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  663 

[Quick  march — the  GENERAL,  LENOX  and  ADELA  pass  to  the  left, 
and  stand  near  the  tent;  the  troops  advance;  CHRISTINE 
is  among  them,  dressed  in  uniform;  they  pass  round  the 
stage  in  regular  order,  then  form  the  line  two  deep;  CHRIS 
TINE  is  in  front  on  the  right,  and  keeps  her  eye  fixed  anxiously 
on  LENOX  ;  drum  beats  the  roll;  the  troops  come  to  an  order, 
and  then  proceed  through  the  manual  by  the  tap  of  drum,  and 
finally  to  a  present;  the  GENERAL,  LENOX,  and  other  officers 
advance,  and  pass  through  the  line  in  review;  the  flags  wave, 
and  the  band  strikes  up  "Hail  Columbia.'"] 

GENERAL.   Well — everything  is  right.    And  now,  soldiers,  to 
your  posts;    remember,  discipline,  subordination,  courage,  and 
country,  and  victory  will  be  ours.     [GENERAL,  LENOX  and  ADELA, 
enter  the  tent  to  the  left.      The  troops  march  off.    CHRISTINE 
and  a  SOLDIER,  headed  by  a  CORPORAL,  return  to  relieve 
guard  at  each  tent.    Port  arms  and  whisper  the  countersign. 
CHRISTINE  is  placed  before  the  tent  on  the  right,  her  comrade 
on  the  left.    CORPORAL  retires  with  the  two  relieved  sentries. 
After  a  pause,  she  beckons  to  her  comrade.  ] 
CHRISTINE.   Hist — comrade! 
SOLDIER.   Well,  what  is  it? 

CHRISTINE.  Will  you  exchange  places?  There  is  no  difference 
— and  the  sun  will  be  too  powerful  for  me  presently.  Look,  here 
is  a  dollar. 

SOLDIER.   With  all  my  heart.    [They  cross  quickly,  the  SOLDIER 

receives  the  money — CHRISTINE  now  paces  before  the  tent 

into  which  LENOX,  ADELA  and  the  GENERAL  have  retired.  ] 

CHRISTINE.    Could  I  but  see  the  false,  perfidious  LENOX,  and 

upbraid  him  with  his  cruelty!    [She  is  in  great  uneasiness,  pauses 

occasionally,  and  looks  into  the  tent — her  comrade  is  watching  her. 

LENOX  sings  within.  ] 

Shall  the  pleasures  of  life  unknown  fade  away, 

In  viewing  those  charms  so  lovely  and  gay? 

Shall  the  heart  which  has  breath'd  forth  rapturous  flame, 

Be  hid  from  the  world  and  unsought  for  by  fame? 

Thus  spoke  the  fond  Roscoe  to  Scylla  the  fair, 

As  he  gaz'd  on  her  charms,  with  a  love-soothing  care: 

Hear  now  the  last  wish,  that  fondly  I  sigh, 

I'll  conquer  in  love,  or  in  battle  I'll  die. 


664  Representative  Plays 

He  girded  his  armour  and  flew  to  the  field, 
Determin'd  while  life  flow'd  never  to  yield; 
The  foe  was  subdued,  but  death's  cruel  dart 
Was  aim'd  at  the  valiant  and  fond  Roscoe's  heart: 

But  the  blow  was  defeated — he  lived  to  enjoy 

The  sight  of  his  Scylla,  no  longer  so  coy, 

And  his  laurels  fresh  bloom'd,  as  she  smil'd  on  the  youth, 

And  gave  her  fair  hand  in  reward  for  his  truth. 

CHRISTINE.  Ha,  that  false  voice!  I  can  no  longer  bear  it! 
[Throws  down  her  gun,  and  is  about  entering  the  tent,  when  her 

comrade,  who  has  been  attentively  regarding  her  movements, 

rushes  over  and  seizes  her.] 
SOLDIER.   Where  are  you  going? 

CHRISTINE.   Unhand  me  this  instant!  [Struggles. 

SOLDIER.    Guards,  there! 

Enter  an  OFFICER  with  SOLDIERS,  who  attempts  to  seize  CHRISTINE 
— she  draws  her  sword  and  stands  on  the  defensive,  and  after  some 
resistance,  escapes. 

OFFICER.    Pursue  him  quickly!  [SOLDIERS  pursue. 

SOLDIER.   He  crosses  the  bridge. 

OFFICER.   The  sentinels  will  reach  him  with  their  guns. 

[Muskets  discharged. 
SOLDIER.   They  have  him — he  is  not  hurt. 

GENERAL,  ADELA  and  LENOX  rush  from  the  tent. 

GENERAL.   What  means  this  confusion? 

2ND  OFFICER.  The  sentinel  who  was  placed  here  on  duty,  at 
tempted,  for  some  desperate  purpose,  to  enter  your  tent;  but 
being  discovered,  he  refused  to  surrender,  drew  his  sword  on  me 
and  the  guard,  and,  after  some  resistance,  has  been  disarmed  and 
secured. 

LENOX.   Good  heavens!    What  object  could  he  have  had? 

2ND  OFFICER.  I  know  not — but  he  is  a  new  recruit,  probably 
a  spy  from  the  enemy. 

GENERAL.  It  must  be  so — see  that  a  court  martial  be  called  to 
try  him,  and  bring  the  result  to  me  without  delay.  If  he  is  guilty, 
a  dreadful  example  shall  be  made  of  him.  Begone. 

[Exeunt  GENERAL,  SOLDIERS,  &c. 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  665 

SCENE  III.   Another  Part  of  the  Camp. 
ENTER  JASPER,  JERRY  and  PEASANTS. 

JASPER.  Nowhere  to  be  found.  I  have  asked  everybody  in 
the  camp  in  vain — she  is  lost  to  me.  Unhappy,  cruel  girl!  to 
quit  her  old  and  fond  father  thus. 

JERRY.  Unhappy  girl!  to  leave  me  in  such  an  ungenteel  man 
ner  too,  run  away  from  me  on  my  wedding  day!  but  I'll  find  her 
out. 

JASPER.  Impossible!  we  must  return,  dejected  and  disap 
pointed. 

JERRY.  I'll  peep  into  every  tent,  bribe  the  sogers — I've  got  a 
little  money  left.  QASPER  and  PEASANTS  retire.  CORPORAL 
crosses  the  stage.  ]  Hist,  corporal ! 

CORPORAL.   Well,  what  would  you? 

JERRY.  Why  no,  sure— it  isn't— yes,  it  is— why  Corporal 
Flash,  how  do  you  do?  Don't  you  know  me? 

CORPORAL.    Can't  say  I  do,  sir. 

JERRY.  Why,  not  know  Jerry  Mayflower?  Don't  you  remem 
ber  me  at  the  battle  of  Queenstown,  when  you  were  in  the  boat 
and  I  on  land,  and  you  were  crossing  to  fight  Johnny  Bull,  and 
I  didn't  cross  at  all? 

CORPORAL.  Oh,  I  remember  you  now — I  remember  calling  you 
a  cowardly  rascal  at  the  time. 

JERRY.  So  you  did — how  have  you  been?  I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you — you're  not  killed,  I  take  it? 

CORPORAL.  No,  not  exactly  killed— but  I  was  wounded— an 
honour  which  you  didn't  seem  to  care  much  about. 

JERRY.    No,  not  much;   I'm  not  very  ambitious  that  way. 

CORPORAL.  What  brings  you  to  the  camp,  just  when  we  are 
about  having  another  brush  with  the  enemy— do  you  want  to 
run  away  again?  Zounds!  you  deserve  a  round  hundred  at  the 
halberts. 

JERRY.  Yes,  I  deserve  many  things  that  I  don't  get— but 
pray,  corporal,  mout  you  have  seen  a  young  woman  in  this  here 
camp  lately? 

CORPORAL.   Oh,  plenty,  among  the  suttlers. 

JERRY.  No,  a  kind  of  a  pretty  girl,  a  little  lady-like,  parlyvoos, 
and  carries  her  head  up  straight. 

CORPORAL.   No — I've  seen  no  such  person. 


666  Representative  Plays 

JERRY.  Well,  Corporal  Flash,  I've  a  little  cash,  and  what  say 
you  to  a  jug  of  whiskey  punch?  Brave  men,  you  know,  like  you 
and  I,  should  drink  with  one  another. 

CORPORAL.  With  all  my  heart;  you're  good  for  nothing  else 
but  to  drink  with. 

JERRY.  Then  come  along,  my  boy;  we'll  drown  care,  raise  our 
spirits,  and  swallow  the  enemy  in  a  bumper.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.   A  Prison. 

Enter  two  OFFICERS,  GUARDS  and  CHRISTINE.     OFFICERS  seat 
themselves  at  a  table,  with  pens  and  ink. 

1ST  OFFICER.  Young  man,  come  forward.  You  have  been 
charged  with  an  act  of  mutiny,  and  with  an  attempt,  for  some 
unknown  cause,  to  force  your  way,  with  arms  in  your  hand, 
into  the  tent  of  the  commanding  general.  We  are  convened  for 
your  trial — we  have  examined  the  testimony ;  and  as  you^  are  a 
stranger  in  our  ranks,  no  feelings  of  prejudice  could  have  given  a 
false  colouring  to  that  testimony.  What  have  you  to  say? 

CHRISTINE.   Nothing. 

OFFICER.   Nothing? 

CHRISTINE.   Nothing!    [With  firmness.]    I  am  guilty! 

OFFICER.  Have  a  care,  pause  before  you  make  this  avowal  of 
your  guilt. 

CHRISTINE.  [With  settled  firmness.]  I  have  considered  it  well, 
and  am  ready  to  meet  the  consequences.  I  am  guilty.  [With  a 
burst  of  anguish.  ]  Oh,  most  guilty ! 

OFFICER.  Unhappy  young  man,  what  could  have  tempted  you 
to  this  act?  Who  set  you  on? 

CHRISTINE.  Seek  not  to  know  the  cause,  'tis  buried  here.  Do 
your  duty — I  am  prepared  for  the  result. 

OFFICER.    [To  the  Board.]    The  charge  is  fully  admitted,  and 
the  rules  of  war  prescribe  the  punishment.    The  object  he  had  in 
view  must  yet  be  discovered;    'tis  plain,  however,  that  he  is  a 
spy,  and  has  no  hope  of  pardon.     Record  the  verdict  and  sen 
tence,  for  the  inspection  and  concurrence  of  the  general.   [OFFICER 
writes.    The  company  rise  from  the  table,  and  one  approaches 
CHRISTINE,  who  appears  buried  in  thought.  ] 

OFFICER.  Young  man,  I  deeply  commiserate  your  unhappy  sit 
uation,  but  the  rules  of  war  are  rigid,  and  must  be  enforced.  You 
must  prepare  to  die ! 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  667 

CHRISTINE.    [Starts,  but  recovers  herself  quickly.  ]    I  am  ready. 

OFFICER.  I  would  offer  you  hope,  but  acts  of  mutiny,  and  when 
covering  such  suspicious  motives  as  yours,  cannot  be  pardoned. 
You  have  but  a  day  to  live.  I  deeply  regret  it,  for  you  appear  to 
have  qualities  which,  in  time,  would  have  made  you  a  valuable 
citizen.  You  are  cut  off  in  youth,  probably  from  the  hopes  of  a 
fond  parent. 

CHRISTINE.    [In  agony.  ]    Oh,  no  more — no  more ! 

OFFICER.  All  the  sympathy  and  indulgence  which  can  be 
offered  you  shall  be  yours!  Farewell. 

[Exit  OFFICERS,  GUARDS,  &c. 

CHRISTINE.  At  length  'tis  concluded,  and  an  ignominious 
death  terminates  my  unmerited  sufferings.  Cruel  father!  and 
still  more  cruel  Lenox!  thus  to  have  wounded  the  heart  that 
loved  you.  Oh,  what  a  situation  is  mine !  separated  from  all  I  hold 
dear,  sentenced  to  die,  and  in  this  disguise;  to  leave  my  poor 
father,  and  to  know  that  death,  alone,  can  tell  my  sad  story. 
What's  to  be  done?  Discover  all?  No,  no.  Expose  my  weakness 
and  folly — to  see  the  false  Lenox  wedded  to  another,  and  I 
forced  to  accept  the  hand  I  loathe — to  be  pointed  at  for  one  who, 
lost  to  the  delicacy  of  her  sex,  followed  a  perfidious  lover  in  dis 
guise,  and,  tortured  by  jealousy,  enlisted,  was  mutinous,  and 
sentenced  to  die;  but  who,  to  save  a  miserable  life,  avowed  her 
situation,  and  recorded  her  disgrace  at  once?  Never,  never! 
let  me  die,  and  forever  be  forgotten — 'tis  but  a  blow,  and  it  will 
end  the  pangs  which  torment  me  here.  [Enter  a  SOLDIER,  who 
beckons.  ]  I  am  ready,  lead  the  way.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V.   Another  part  of  the  Prison. 

Enter  the  JAILOR,  driving  JERRY  before  him. 

JAILOR.  In,  in,  you  mutinous  dog!  do  you  come  here  to  breed 
a  riot  in  our  camp? 

JERRY.  Now,  my  dear  good-natured  jailor,  only  have  pity  on 
me,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 

JAILOR.    I  won't  hear  you — didn't  you  breed  a  riot? 

JERRY.  Why  no,  it  was  not  me.  I  am  as  innocent  as  a  young 
lamb.  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was — come,  sit  down  on  this  bench 
with  me.  [They  sit.]  You  must  know  that  I'm  a  farmer,  pretty 
well  off,  as  a  body  mout  say,  and  I  wanted  a  wife;  hard  by  our 


668  Representative  Plays 

village,  there  lived  an  old  soger  with  a  pretty  daughter,  so  I 
courted  the  old  man  for  his  daughter,  and  he  consented  to  the 
match. 

JAILOR.  Well? 

JERRY.  And  so  I  got  together  all  my  neighbours,  and,  with 
music,  went  to  the  old  soger's  to  get  my  sweetheart,  when,  lo  and 
behold !  after  all  my  trouble,  she  refused  me  plump. 

JAILOR.   No,  did  she? 

JERRY.  Ay,  indeed;  she  didn't  seem  stricken  with  the  pro 
posal — and  for  fear  her  father  would  force  her  to  marry  me,  egad, 
she  run  away. 

JAILOR.   And  where  did  she  go? 

JERRY.  I  can't  say,  but  her  father  and  a  whole  posse  comitatus, 
as  we  justices  call  'em,  went  in  search  of  her  to  the  camp,  and 
when  I  came  here,  I  found  some  of  my  old  comrades  who  fought 
with  me  at  Queenstown;  and  so  having  a  little  money,  we  went 
to  take  a  comfortable  pitcher  of  whiskey  punch  together,  and  so, 
while  over  our  cups,  they  doubted  my  valour,  and  hinted  that  I 
run  away  before  the  battle. 

JAILOR.   Well,  and  what  did  you  do? 

JERRY.  Why,  I  offered  to  fight  'em  single-handed  all  round, 
and  we  got  into  a  dispute,  and  so  when  my  money  was  all  gone, 
they  tweaked  my  nose,  boxed  my  ears,  and  kick'd  me  out  of  the 
tent.  So  I  then  kick'd  up  a  row,  and — that's  all. 

JAILOR.  A  very  pretty  story,  indeed !  You  look  like  a  mutinous 
dog — so  come,  get  into  the  black  hole. 

JERRY.  Now,  my  dear  jailor,  do  let  me  escape,  and  I'll  give 
you  the  prettiest  little  pig  in  my  farmyard. 

JAILOR.  What!  bribe  an  honest  and  humane  jailor,  and  with  a 
pig?  In  with  you. 

JERRY.   Well,  but  I've  nothing  to  eat — I  shall  be  half  starved. 

JAILOR.  Oh  no,  you  shall  have  something  to  employ  your 
grinders  on.  [Goes  out,  and  returns  with  a  black  loaf,  and  a  pitcher 
of  water.  ]  There ! 

JERRY.  O  dear,  nothing  else  but  black  bread  and  cold  water? 
Can't  you  get  me  a  pickle? 

JAILOR.  I  think  you're  in  a  devil  of  a  pickle  already — come, 
get  in !  [Removes  a  board  from  the  scene,  which  discovers  a  small 
dark  hole.  JERRY  supplicates.] 

JERRY.  How  long  am  I  to  be  here,  Mr.  Jailor,  in  company  with 
myself? 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  669 

JAILOR.  That  depends  on  your  good  behaviour.  [Cannon  are 
heard.  ]  There !  the  battle  has  commenced. 

JERRY.  [Putting  his  head  out  of  the  hole.  ]  O  dear,  what's  that? 
The  great  guns  are  going  off.  Are  you  sure,  my  dear  jailor,  that 
this  prison  is  bomb  proof? 

JAILOR.   Take  your  head  in,  you  great  land  turtle. 

JERRY.   Oh,  what  will  become  of  me? 

End  of  the  Second  Act. 

ACT  III. 

Scene  in  front  of  a  pavilion  tent;  trumpets  and  drums  sounding. 
Enter  GENERAL,  LENOX,  SOLDIERS,  OFFICERS,  &c. 

GENERAL.  At  length  victory  has  crown'd  our  arms,  and  the 
result  of  this  action  will  keep  alive  the  spirits  of  our  troops,  and 
the  hopes  of  our  country.  Hark!  the  bugles  are  sounding  a  re 
treat,  and  the  enemy  has  abandoned  the  field  and  taken  to  his  en 
trenchments.  Lenox,  your  hand — your  conduct  this  day  has  con 
firmed  our  hopes — allow  me  in  the  name  of  our  country  to  thank 
you. 

LENOX.  Not  a  word,  dear  general,  not  a  word;  I  have  merely 
done  my  duty,  and  done  no  more  than  every  soldier  in  our  ranks. 

GENERAL.   What  is  the  result  of  this  day's  action? 

LENOX.  The  enemy  has  lost  upwards  of  500  in  killed  and 
wounded,  and  several  principal  officers  have  been  taken  prisoners. 

GENERAL.  In  what  position  were  they  when  the  attack  be 
came  general? 

LENOX.  The  British  commander,  pressed  by  our  artillery 
under  Towson,  issued  in  all  his  force  from  his  entrenchments. 
It  was  a  gallant  sight,  to  see  his  solid  columns  and  burnished  arms 
advance  on  the  margin  of  the  river,  and  his  cavalry,  with  light 
ning's  force,  dart  on  our  flanks  to  turn  and  throw  them  into  con 
fusion:  but  they  were  met  by  the  volunteers  under  the  brave 
Porter,  and  gallantly  repulsed. 

GENERAL.   Go  on. 

LENOX.  The  enemy  then  condensed  his  forces  and  crossed  the 
bridge,  and  was  encountered  on  the  plains  of  Chippewa  by  Scott, 
with  his  brigade,  when  the  action  became  severe  and  general. 
No  ambuscade  or  masked  batteries  were  held  in  reserve — the 
enemy  was  not  a  moment  concealed  from  our  view — no  tangled 
thicket  or  umbrageous  groves  gave  effect  or  facility  to  our  rifles: 


670  Representative  Plays 

the  battle  was  fought  on  a  plain — where  man  grappled  man, 
force  was  opposed  to  force,  skill  to  skill,  and  eye  to  eye,  in  regular, 
disciplined,  and  admirable  order. 

GENERAL.   How  near  were  you  to  the  British  general? 

LENOX.  In  sight  and  hearing.  Charge  the  Yankees!  said  a 
hoarse  voice  which  I  knew  to  be  his.  Charge  away!  said  our  ar 
dent  troops,  as  they  advanced  with  fixed  bayonets;  the  fire  be 
came  dreadful,  and  our  stars  and  stripes  were  seen  waving  in  the 
blaze.  Scott  rode  through  the  lines  cheering  the  men,  and  gal 
lantly  leading  them  on;  Jessup  and  his  third  battalion  turned 
the  right  flank  of  the  enemy  after  a  dreadful  conflict;  Ketchum 
had  kept  up  a  cross  and  ruinous  fire;  and  Towson,  from  his 
dread  artillery,  scattered  grape  like  hail  amongst  them.  On,  on! 
cried  Leavenworth,  the  day's  our  own,  my  boys!  Just  then  a 
shot  struck  down  my  comrade,  Harrison,  and  shattered  his  leg. 

GENERAL.   Well? 

LENOX.  He  grasped  his  sword  and  fought  on  his  stump,  cling 
ing  to  the  spot  like  fire-eyed  Mars;  the  enemy,  pressed  on  all 
sides,  gave  way;  our  troops  pursued,  and  the  flight  became  gen 
eral.  At  length  we  drove  them  to  their  entrenchments,  and  re 
mained  masters  of  the  field.  Our  trumpets  sounded  their  retreat; 
victory  perched  on  our  eagles,  and  our  bands  struck  up  the  soul- 
inspiring  air  of  "Hail,  Columbia,  happy  land!" 

GENERAL.  Well  done,  my  brave  fellows!  This  action  will 
teach  the  enemy  to  respect  that  valour  which  they  cannot  subdue. 
See  that  the  wounded  prisoners  are  taken  care  of:  give  them  all 
succor:  victory  loses  half  its  value,  when  it  is  not  tempered  with 
mercy.  [Exit  GENERAL. 

LENOX.  Now  to  my  dear  Christine,  to  receive  from  her  the 
reward  which  I  hope  I  have  fairly  earned,  and  seek  with  her  the 
joys  of  tranquillity  and  love. 

Enter  a  SOLDIER. 

SOLDIER.  Towards  the  conclusion  of  the  battle  we  made  two 
Indian  warriors  prisoners,  who  were  fighting  desperately;  we 
have  them  with  us. 

LENOX.    Bring  them  in;    I  will  examine  them,  touching  the 

number  and  force  of  their  tribe.     [Exit  SOLDIER,  who  returns 

with  PENDRAGON  and  LAROLE,  with  a  file  of  men;  both 

are  painted  and  dressed  as  Indians;  PENDRAGON  preserves 

his  opera-glass,  and  LAROLE  his  snuff-box.  ] 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  671 

PENDRAGON.   What  are  we  brought  here  for,  fellow? 

LENOX.  Warriors,  the  fate  of  battle  has  placed  you  in  our 
power;  yet  fear  nothing,  we  shall  treat  you  like  men  and  soldiers. 
Deeply  do  we  regret  to  see  you  take  up  arms  against  us,  insti 
gated  by  foreign  influence,  and  bribed  by  foreign  gold.  How 
numerous  is  your  tribe? 

PENDRAGON.  WThy  what  the  devil,  sir,  do  you  take  us  for 
Choctaws?  Can't  you  tell  a  man  of  fashion  in  masquerade? 

LENOX.   Who  and  what  are  you? 

PENDRAGON.  I  am  the  honourable  Captain  Pendragon,  of  his 
Majesty's  Coldstream  guards. 

LENOX.  The  honourable  Captain  Pendragon,  and  taken  prisoner 
fighting  in  the  ranks  with  Indians,  and  in  disguise?  A  man  of 
rank  and  fashion,  and  a  soldier,  changing  his  complexion,  his 
nature  and  his  character — herding  with  savages — infuriating 
their  horrid  passions,  and  whetting  their  knives  and  tomahawks 
against  their  defenceless  prisoners?  Impossible!  And  who  are 
you,  sir?  \To  LAROLE. 

LAROLE.  {Taking  snuff.}  Begar,  sair,  I  am  von  man  of 
fashion  aussi,  I  am  valet  de  sham  to  capitain  Pendragoon;  ve 
are  in  de  masquerade,  sair. 

PENDRAGON.  It's  very  true,  sir,  'pon  honour — we  are  in  mas 
querade,  though  you  look  as  if  you  doubt  it.  War,  sir,  is  a  kind  of 
a — a  singular  science,  and  if  you  are  to  be  knock'd  on  the  head, 
'tis  of  very  little  consequence  whether  your  nose  is  tipped  with 
blue  or  red,  damme.  I  am  in  your  power,  sir,  and  a  man  of 
fashion,  'pon  honour. 

LENOX.  Well,  sir,  if  your  example  is  to  govern  men  of  honour 
or  men  of  fashion,  I  hope  I  am  ignorant  of  the  attributes  of  the 
one,  or  the  eccentricities  of  the  other.  However,  mercy  to 
prisoners,  even  when  they  have  forfeited  mercy,  may  teach 
your  nation  lessons  of  toleration  and  humanity.  Your  life  is 
safe,  sir. 

PENDRAGON.  Sir,  you  speak  very  like  a  gentleman,  and  I  shall 
be  happy  to  taste  Burgundy  with  you  at  the  Horse  Guards. 

LENOX.    I  thank  you,  sir. 

LAROLE.  Par  example,  dis  Yankee.  Doodel  is  von  very  pretti 
spoken  jeune  gentiman,  I  will  give  him  de  encouragement.  Sair, 
I  vill  be  ver  happy  to  serve  you  en  my  contree,  to  take  un  tasse 
de  caffee  at  de  Palais  Royale  en  Paris  wid  you,  to  dress  your  hair, 
or  pull  your  corset  tight. 


672  Representative  Plays 

Enter  GENERAL,  ADELA  and  OFFICER. 

GENERAL.   Who  have  we  here? 

LENOX.    Prisoners,  sir,  and  in  disguise. 

ADELA.   As  I  live,  an  Indian  dandy! 

PENDRAGON.  A  lady?  [With  an  air  of  fashion.}  Ma'am,  your 
most  devoted  slave — inexpressibly  happy  to  find  a  beautiful 
creature  in  this  damn'd  wilderness.  You  see,  ma'am,  I  am  a  kind 
of  a  prisoner,  but  always  at  home,  always  at  my  ease,  d-la-mode 
St.  James — extremely  rejoiced  to  have  the  honour  of  your  ac 
quaintance.  A  fine  girl,  LaRole,  split  me ! 

LAR.OLE.   Oh,  oui,  she  is  very  fine,  I  like  her  ver  mush. 

ADELA.  Pray,  sir,  may  I  ask  how  came  you  to  fancy  that  dis 
guise? 

PENDRAGON.  Oh,  it's  not  my  fancy,  'pon  honour,  though  I  am 
one  of  the  fancy;  a  mere  russe  de  guerre.  We  on  the  other  side 
of  the  water,  have  a  kind  of  floating  idea  that  you  North  Ameri 
cans  are  half  savages,  and  we  must  fight  you  after  your  own 
fashion. 

ADELA.  And  have  you  discovered  that  any  difference  exists  in 
the  last  affair  in  which  you  have  been  engaged? 

PENDRAGON.  Why,  'pon  my  soul,  ma'am,  this  Yankee  kind  of 
warfare  is  inexpressibly  inelegant,  without  flattery — no  order — 
no  military  arrangement — no  deploying  in  solid  columns — but  a. 
kind  of  helter-skelter  warfare,  like  a  reel  or  a  country-dance  at  a 
village  inn,  while  the  house  is  on  fire. 

ADELA.    Indeed? 

PENDRAGON.  All  true,  I  assure  you.  Why,  do  you  know, 
ma'am,  that  one  of  your  common  soldiers  was  amusing  himself 
with  shooting  at  me  for  several  minutes,  although  he  saw  from 
my  air,  and  my  dodging,  that  I  was  a  man  of  fashion?  Mon 
strous  assurance!  wasn't  it? 

ADELA.  Why  ay,  it  was  rather  impertinent  for  a  common  sol 
dier  to  attempt  to  bring  down  a  man  of  fashion. 

LAROLE.  Oui — it  is  dam  impertinent,  mai  par  example,  de 
littel  bullet  of  von  common  soldat,  he  sometime  kill  von  great 
general. 

PENDRAGON.  Pray,  ma'am,  will  you  permit  me  to  ask,  when 
you  arrived  from  England,  and  what  family  has  the  honour  to 
boast  of  so  beautiful  a  representative? 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  673 

ADELA.   Sir,  I  am  not  of  England,  I  stand  on  my  native  soil. 

PENDRAGON.  Oh. 

ADELA.  And  much  as  I  esteem  English  women  for  their  many 
amiable  qualities,  I  hope  that  worth  and  virtue  are  not  wholly 
centered  in  that  country. 

PENDRAGON.  Why,  'pon  my  soul,  ma'am,  though  it  is  not 
fashionable  this  year  to  be  prejudiced,  yet  were  I  to  admit  that 
I  saw  any  beauty  or  elegance  in  America,  my  Bond-Street 
friends  would  cut  me — split  me! 

ADELA.  I  cannot  admire  their  candour.  Merit  is  the  exclusive 
property  of  no  country,  and  to  form  a  just  estimate  of  our  own 
advantages,  we  should  be  ever  prepared  to  admit  the  advantages 
possessed  by  others. 

Enter  a  SOLDIER. 

SOLDIER.  We  have  surprised  and  made  captive  the  celebrated 
Indian  chief,  who  fought  so  desperately  against  us. 

GENERAL.  Bring  him  before  us.  [Exit  SOLDIER.]  He  has  long 
been  the  terror  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  crafty  foe  of  our 
country. 

Enter  SOLDIERS  with  the  INDIAN  CHIEF. 

INDIAN.  Who  among  you  is  the  chief  of  these  pale-faced  ene 
mies  of  our  race? 

GENERAL.   I  am  he. 

INDIAN.  Tis  well,  sir;  behold  in  me  your  captive,  who  has 
fallen  into  your  power  after  a  resistance  becoming  a  warrior.  I 
am  ready  to  meet  that  death  which  I  know  awaits  me. 

GENERAL.  Chief,  your  fears  are  groundless;  we  intend  you  no 
harm,  but  by  our  example,  teach  you  the  blessings  of  valour  and 
mercy  united. 

INDIAN.  Wherefore  show  me  mercy?  I  ask  it  not  of  you. — 
Think  you  that  I  cannot  bear  the  flames?  that  a  warrior  shrinks 
from  the  uplifted  tomahawk?  Try  me — try  how  a  great  soul  can 
smile  on  death.  Or  do  you  hope  that  I  will  meanly  beg  a  life, 
which  fate  and  evil  fortune  has  thrown  into  your  hands? 

GENERAL.  We  ask  no  concessions  of  you,  warrior;  we  wish  to 
see  you  sensible  of  the  delusions  into  which  foreign  nations  have 
plunged  you.  We  wish  to  see  you  our  friend. 

INDIAN.  Your  friend?  Call  back  the  times  which  we  passed 
in  liberty  and  happiness,  when  in  the  tranquil  enjoyment  of  un- 


674  Representative  Plays 

restrained  freedom  we  roved  through  our  forests,  and  only  knew 
the  bears  as  our  enemy;  call  back  our  council  fires,  our  fathers 
and  pious  priests;  call  back  our  brothers,  wives  and  children, 
which  cruel  white  men  have  destroyed. — Your  friend?  You  came 
with  the  silver  smile  of  peace,  and  we  received  you  into  our 
cabins;  we  hunted  for  you,  toiled  for  you;  our  wives  and  daugh 
ters  cherished  and  protected  you;  but  when  your  numbers  in 
creased,  you  rose  like  wolves  upon  us,  fired  our  dwellings,  drove 
off  our  cattle,  sent  us  in  tribes  to  the  wilderness,  to  seek  for  shel 
ter;  and  now  you  ask  me,  while  naked  and  a  prisoner,  to  be  your 
friend ! 

GENERAL.  We  have  not  done  this,  deluded  man;  your  pre 
tended  advocates,  over  the  great  waters,  have  told  you  this  tale. 

INDIAN.  Alas!  it  is  a  true  one;  I  feel  it  here;  'tis  no  fiction: 
I  was  the  chief  of  a  great  and  daring  tribe,  which  smiled  on  death 
with  indifference  and  contempt;  my  cabin  was  the  seat  of  hos 
pitality  and  of  love;  I  was  first  in  council,  and  first  in  the  field; 
my  prosperity  increased,  my  prospects  brightened ;  but  the  white 
man  came,  and  all  was  blasted. 

GENERAL.   What  has  been  done,  was  the  result  of  war. 

INDIAN.  Wherefore  wage  war  against  us?  Was  not  your  terri 
tory  sufficiently  ample,  but  did  you  sigh  for  our  possessions? 
Were  you  not  satisfied  with  taking  our  land  from  us,  but  would 
you  hunt  the  lords  of  the  soil  into  the  den  of  the  otter?  Why  drive 
to  desperation  a  free  and  liberal  people?  Think  you  I  would  be 
your  enemy  unless  urged  by  powerful  wrongs?  No,  white  man, 
no!  the  Great  Spirit  whom  we  worship,  is  also  the  God  whom  you 
adore;  for  friends  we  cheerfully  lay  down  our  lives;  but  against 
foes,  our  lives  are  staked  with  desperation.  Had  I  taken  you 
prisoner,  death  should  have  been  your  portion;  death  in  cruel 
torments.  Then  why  spare  me?  why  spare  the  man  whose  knife 
was  whetted  against  your  life? 

GENERAL.  To  show,  by  contrast,  the  difference  of  our  princi 
ples.  You  would  strike  down  the  captive  who  implores  your 
protection:  we  tender  life  and  liberty  to  the  prisoner,  who  asks 
himself  for  death. 

INDIAN.    Is  this  your  vengeance? 

GENERAL.  It  is.  The  Great  Spirit  delights  in  mercy.  Be 
thou  our  friend,  warrior;  bury  thy  tomahawk  deep  in  earth; 
let  not  jealous  foreigners  excite  thy  vengeance  against  us;  but 
living  as  we  do  in  one  territory,  let  us  smoke  the  calumet  of  peace, 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  675 

you  and  all  your  tribe,  and  let  concord  hereafter  reign  amongst 
us. — Be  this  the  token.  [Gives  a  belt  of  wampum. 

INDIAN.  Brother,  I  accept  the  token;  forgive  my  rage,  and 
pardon  my  unjust  anger.  Protect  our  warriors  and  wives;  guard 
their  wigwarns  from  destruction;  soften  their  prejudices  and  re 
move  their  jealousies.  Do  this,  and  the  red  man  is  your  friend. 
I  have  urged  you  far  to  end  my  life:  you  have  tempered  your  pas 
sions  with  mercy,  and  we  are  no  longer  foes.  Farewell !  [Exit. 

LAR.OLE.  Parbleu,  dis  general  is  like  von  great  Roman.  I 
vill  speak  von  vord  pour  myself,  I  viil  make  de  speech  like  de 
sauvage. 

GENERAL.  [To  LA  ROLE.]  And  you,  sir,  it  appears,  are  in 
disguise,  unlike  a  civilized  soldier;  you  have  been  taken  in  the 
ranks  with  Indians. 

LARoLE.  Sair,  mon  general,  you  sail  here  vat  I  am  goin  to 
say.  I  am  von  Frenchiman;  in  my  contree  every  Frenchiman 
he  is  von  soldat. 

GENERAL.  Well? 

LAROLE.  Begar,  sair,  I  must  fight  vid  somebody,  because  it  is 
my  bisness.  In  de  Egypt  I  did  fight  'gainst  de  Turc;  in  Europe 
I  did  fight  de  whole  vorld  vis  de  Grand  Napoleon,  and  in  Ame- 
rique  I  did  fight  against  you  vid  myself.  Mais,  you  take  a  me  de 
prisonier,  I  can  fight  no  more ;  I  vill  trow  myself  on  de  protection 
of  dis  contree;  I  vill  no  more  fight  contree  de  Yankee  Doodel; 
I  vill  stay  here  and  eat  de  ros  beef  vid  you,  and  mon  capitain  la, 
he  may  go  to  de  devil. 

GENERAL.  Admirably  concluded.  And  you,  sir,  what  can  we 
do  to  lighten  your  captivity? 

PENDRAGON.  Why  sir,  if  war  was  not  my  profession,  I'd  sell 
out;  but  it's  always  my  maxim  to  obey  orders,  whatever  they 
may  be:  therefore,  shall  be  happy  to  have  a  brush  with  you  in 
war,  and  equally  happy  to  crack  a  bottle  of  Burgundy  with  you 
in  peace;  a  flash  in  the  pan  in  one  way,  or  a  puff  from  a  segar  in 
another;  a  bullet  under  the  ribs  in  battle,  or  a  country  dance  in  a 
ball-room;  all's  one  to  me,  if  it's  only  fashionably  conducted. 

GENERAL.  Well,  let's  into  my  tent  and  partake  of  some  re 
freshment.  We  may  not  always  meet  as  enemies. 

PENDRAGON.  [To  ADELA.  ]  Allow  me  the  felicity  of  your  little 
finger.  [Aside.]  She's  struck  with  my  figure,  split  me!  LaRole, 
take  notice. 

LAROLE.   Oh,  you  are  de  littel  devil  among  de  ladies.    [Exeunt. 


676  Representative  Plays 

SCENE  II.   A  Prison. 

CHRISTINE  seated  on  a  bench;   her  appearance  betrays  grief  and 

despair. 

CHRISTINE.  At  length  the  weary  night  has  passed  away,  and 
day  dawns,  but  brings  no  joy  or  comfort  to  my  aching  heart. 
Alas!  alas!  Christine,  where  are  all  the  bright  visions  thy  fond 
fancy  painted?  where  is  that  content  and  love  which  gleamed 
through  the  casement  of  our  cottage,  when  my  dear  father  smiled 
on  his  child,  and  entwined  around  her  his  protecting  arms:  when 
the  false  Lenox,  too,  with  honeyed  lips,  and  tones  soft  as  zephyrs, 
vow'd  eternal  love?  Let  me  not  think  of  them,  or  I  shall  go  mad. 
Oh,  what  a  contrast!  pent  up  in  a  vile  prison,  and  in  disguise! 
condemned  to  die,  and  perishing  unknown  and  unprotected. 
On  the  one  side,  my  grave  yawns  for  me;  and  on  the  other,  a 
false  lover,  and  a  cruel  father,  drive  me  to  despair.  My  brain  is 
on  fire !  {Hurries  about  with  rapid  strides.  Music  loud  and  violent.  ] 
Ha!  what  is  this?  [Tears  the  miniature  from  around  her  neck.] 
Lenox,  these  are  thy  features !  thy  mild  looks  beam  hope  and  joy 
upon  me.  [Kisses  it.]  Could  such  a  face  be  false?  Away  with 
it!  even  now  he  weds  another.  [Throws  the  miniature  indignantly 
from  her.]  So,  'tis  gone,  and  I  am  left  alone  in  darkness  and 
despair.  [She  stands  transfixed  with  grief — muffled  drum  rolls — 
she  starts.  ]  Ha !  they  come  for  me !  Be  firm,  my  heart ! 

Enter  an  OFFICER  and  a  file  of  SOLDIERS. 

OFFICER.  Young  man,  your  hour  has  arrived ;  the  detachment 
waits  without  to  receive  you. 

CHRISTINE.    [Faintly.  ]    I  am  ready. 

OFFICER.  Can  I  serve  you  in  any  manner?  Is  there  no  letter — 
no  remembrance  that  you  would  wish  sent  to  father  or  friend? 

CHRISTINE.   Oh,  forbear! 

SOLDIER.  [Picking  up  the  miniature.  ]  See,  sir,  here  is  a  minia 
ture. 

OFFICER.  [Examining  it.  ]  By  Heavens,  they  are  the  features 
of  Captain  Lenox!  How  came  you  by  this?  What!  a  thief  too? 
Tis  well  your  career  is  cut  short. 

CHRISTINE.   Oh  no,  no!    Give  it  me,  I  implore  you ;   'tis  mine. 

OFFICER.  I  shall  restore  it  to  the  rightful  owner.  Come,wewait. 

CHRISTINE.  Lead  on.  A  few  fleeting  moments,  and  all  my 
troubles  will  be  at  an  end.  [Exeunt. 


She  Would  Be  a  Soldier  677 

SCENE  III.    Before  the  Tent. 
Enter  GENERAL,  SOLDIERS,  &c.,  with  papers. 

GENERAL.   He  has  not  confessed  who  set  him  on? 

OFFICER.   He  has  not,  but  admits  the  crime. 

GENERAL.  [Returning  papers.]  Tis  well — see  him  executed 
according  to  the  sentence.  Hard  and  imperious  duty,  which,  at 
once,  shuts  out  hope  and  mercy!  [Exit  GENERAL. 

OFFICER.  Now  to  seek  for  Lenox,  and  restore  to  him  his  minia 
ture.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.  The  Camp,  as  in  Act  I,  Scene  III;  the  stage  is  thrown 
open,  drums  roll,  and  the  procession  enters  for  the  execution  of 
CHRISTINE;  she  is  in  the  centre,  between  the  two  detachments; 
her  coat  is  off,  and  the  stock  unloosened  from  her  neck — her  step  is 
firm,  until  she  reaches  the  tent  of  LENOX,  when  she  clasps  her 
hands  and  hangs  down  her  head  in  despair.  Procession  makes 
the  circuit  of  the  stage  with  slow  steps,  and  when  opposite  the  tent 
she  kneels;  an  OFFICER  places  the  bandage  over  her  eyes,  and  gives 
a  sign  to  a  detachment  of  four  to  advance;  they  step  forward,  and 
level  their  muskets  at  her;  at  the  moment,  LENOX  rushes  from  the 
tent  with  the  miniature  in  his  hand  and  strikes  up  their  guns. 

LENOX.  Hold!  for  your  lives!  [Rushes  down  to  CHRISTINE, 
and  tears  the  bandage  from  her  eyes.]  'Tis  she!  'tis  she!  'tis  my 
own,  my  beloved  Christine !  [Holds  her  in  his  arms;  she  faints. 

2ND  OFFICER.   What  means  this? 

LENOX.  Stand  off,  ye  cruel  executioners,  would  you  destroy  a 
woman? 

OFFICER.   A  woman?    Heavens!  how  did  this  happen? 

Enter  GENERAL,  ADELA,  LAR.OLE,  SOLDIERS,  &c. 

LENOX.   Support  her,  Adela,  support  my  dear  Christine ! 

[ADELA  assists. 

CHRISTINE.  [Recovering.]  Where  am  I?  [Sees  LENOX  and 
ADELA.]  Hide  me,  save  me  from  that  horrid  sight! 

LENOX.    Do  you  not  know  me,  dear  Christine? 

CHRISTINE.  Traitor,  begone!  let  me  die  at  once!  Is  she  not 
your  bride? 

LENOX.  No,  by  Heavens,  no!  'tis  my  early  friend,  my  dear 
companion.  Could  you  doubt  my  love? 


678  Representative  Plays 

CHRISTINE.  Not  married?  not  your  betrothed?  0  Lenox,  are 
you  then  faithful? 

LENOX.    Could  Christine  doubt  my  vows? 

CHRISTINE.  I  see  it  all — I  have  been  deceived.  Pardon  me, 
dear  Lenox;  but  driven  to  despair  by  your  supposed  perfidy,  I  en 
listed,  and  rushed  on  my  fate — which  in  a  moment  (horrid 
thought!)  would  have  terminated.  But  you  are  true,  and  I  am 
happy.  [Embrace. 

LAROLE.  Parbleu!  it  is  a  littel  voman  vidout  de  petticoat. 
Suppose  she  take  a  me  von  prisonier,  O  quell  disgrace! 

Enter  JASPER,  JERRY  and  PEASANTS. 

JASPER.   Where  is  she?  where  is  my  daughter? 

CHRISTINE.    My  father?    I  dare  not  look  upon  him. 

JASPER.  Come  to  my  arms,  dear  wanderer.  Could  you  leave 
your  poor  old  father  thus?  You've  nearly  broke  my  heart, 
Christine. 

CHRISTINE.  My  sufferings  have  been  equally  severe;  but  do 
you  pardon  your  child? 

JASPER.  I  do — I  do !  and  further  proTte  my  love,  by  making  you 
happy.  Take  her,  Lenox,  she  is  yours;  and  never  let  father  at 
tempt  to  force  his  child  into  a  marriage  which  her  heart  abhors. 

JERRY.  Well,  I  vow,  Miss  Crissy,  you  look  very  pretty  in  pan 
taloons,  and  make  a  fine  soger;  but  after  all,  I'm  glad  to  have 
escaped  a  wife  who  wears  the  breeches  before  marriage — so  I 
consent  that  you  shall  have  the  infantry  ossifer,  because  I  can't 
help  it;  and  so  I'll  marry  Patty,  the  weaver's  daughter,  though 
she  can't  crack  a  bottle  nor  bring  down  a  buck. 

GENERAL.  All  things  have  terminated  happily.  Our  arms 
have  been  triumphant,  and  our  gallant  soldiers  rewarded  with  the 
approbation  of  their  country.  Love  has  intwined  a  wreath  for 
your  brows,  Lenox,  and  domestic  peace  and  happiness  await  you; 
and  when  old  age  draws  on  apace,  may  you  remember  the 
PLAINS  OF  CHIPPEWA,  and  feel  towards  Britain  as  freemen 
should  feel  towards  all  the  world:  "Enemies  in  war — in  peace, 
friends" 

Finis. 


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